


I See Myself In Your Eyes

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Anal, Angst, Blowjobs, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Frottage, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I REGRET NOTHING, Logan Needs A Hug, M/M, New Mutants as supporting characters, Polyamory, Raven is still a psycho, Remy needs to give it to him, Sam Dani and Rahne for the win, Snow White derived smut, but Raven is still a BAMF, child trafficking, did I mention this is slash, everyone loves Hank for his fur, i ship Victor with everyone and he doesn't mind, kid!Remy, lot of blood in this so be warned, near deaths, slight furry, this is naughty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 102,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Author’s Note: I’m hoping I can get through this with less difficulty than my current stories. I’ve got a huge block, less time due to school starting for my family, stressful work during the day, an out of work husband who kicks me off the PC at night and fights me for it during wakeful hours, and too many open documents to pick just one. This will be loaded with slash. I can tell you that right now. I’m talking random, here. This story is going to put the “adult” in “adult fairy tale.” Warnings ahead of time for heavy citrus, slash, bits of het here and there, mature themes and language, nudity, some violence and a hint of casual furry. Rated 17 and up. Don’t drink coffee while you’re reading this; it will likely come squirting out your left nostril.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: I’m hoping I can get through this with less difficulty than my current stories. I’ve got a huge block, less time due to school starting for my family, stressful work during the day, an out of work husband who kicks me off the PC at night and fights me for it during wakeful hours, and too many open documents to pick just one. This will be loaded with slash. I can tell you that right now. I’m talking random, here. This story is going to put the “adult” in “adult fairy tale.” Warnings ahead of time for heavy citrus, slash, bits of het here and there, mature themes and language, nudity, some violence and a hint of casual furry. Rated 17 and up. Don’t drink coffee while you’re reading this; it will likely come squirting out your left nostril.

Disclaimer: Logan, Remy, the New Mutants, Mystique and the Brotherhood belong to Marvel Comics. I don't own the X-Men fandom. I'm not making money writing this story.

Additional Note: I posted this to Gambit_Wolverine on Yahoogroups in a more vanilla, less adult version, even though it was still too mature to put out on the likes of FF.net. This incarnation is the one that I originally planned out, but my muses were feeling restrained and wanted to play it safe.

 

*

Queen Natalie startled slightly at the sound of a knock at her chamber door, then hissed in pain as she pricked her finger with her embroidery needle. “Milady, are you all right?” inquired Clodagh, her lady’s maid. She set down the gown that she was folding and laid it across the clothing press before hurrying over to the queen’s side. She tutted under her breath.

“That’s a nasty scratch, milady.”

She pulled out a small lawn handkerchief from her pocket and daubed her finger with it. Emily, the scullery girl, looked concerned as she saw Clodagh leaning over her majesty. “What is the matter, Highness?”

“Pricked her finger, our lady did,” Clodagh informed her. She nodded for her to take the used, empty dishes from the table in the corner.

“Let me fetch the ointment, milady. I won’t be two shakes,” Emily promised. Her tray of dishes rattled slightly as she backed out of the room and gently closed the door.

Clodagh sighed. “You’ve been more on edge tonight, milady. Would you like some hot milk?”

“Nay,” she murmured absently as she removed her finger from the cloth and examined it. The droplet of blood beading up from the prick seemed to fascinate her. “Crimson,” she mused, almost too low for Clodagh to hear. 

"Let me finish cleaning it, Highness! You don’t want it to grow infected.” Clodagh poured some water from the pitcher into a basin and daubed the edge of the handkerchief in it. While she fussed, the young queen examined her embroidery, admiring her work on the kingdom’s crest. Every knot was perfect, every stitch even where they gleamed in the firelight.

Outside, a light snow fell, nourishing the mounds of it that already frosted the ground. Natalie got up from her seat and stretched, ignoring the sounds of her two maids fussing back and forth once Emily returned. Her back ached and her tender feet were swollen, making her slippers snug and uncomfortable. This baby-making business was more complicated than she thought; Jean-Luc’s heir was being a stubborn little thing, pushing his tiny feet up under her ribs. Clearly he approved of the evening’s dinner of oxtail stew and green peas; Natalie chuckled at the thought and patted her lofty belly.

She cracked open the window without asking either of her servants to perform the task, earning herself a polite, well-meaning scolding. “Majesty, you’ll catch your death, or tempt the evil eye! I pray you, come away!” Clodagh urged, gently curling her hand around the queen’s forearm. Natalie just as gently removed it.

“I’d like a draft of fresh air. Just for a moment.”

“Yes, milady,” she murmured reluctantly, chastened. Clodagh backed away and returned with a blanket and draped it around her shoulders. Natalie leaned out and enjoyed the crisp air on her cheeks. She stared down into the courtyard and admired the trees, tall and majestic despite their bare, spindly branches that speared the night sky. A strange restlessness plagued her spirit, and something in the darkness called to her hauntingly.

She toyed with a mound of snow on the windowsill, patting it into a ball. She tucked a few errant leaves and twigs into it, then noticed that her fingertip bled again, this time numbed from the cold. The crimson against the pristine white crystals mesmerized her again.

“Crimson as rubies. White as snow.” She tracked the snowflakes that hit the window and slowly drizzled down the pane as they melted. “On a night black as pitch,” she whispered. Her own words chilled her. Queen Natalie felt a strange longing that she couldn’t describe, a wistfulness that wouldn’t leave her. Annoyed with her distraction and at being ignored, the baby kicked her more insistently. She sighed.

“All right. Clodagh, the baby decided we’ll have that hot milk, after all.” Emily finished treating her finger and gratefully closed the window while Clodagh headed to the kitchen, grateful that the queen had begun making sense again.

She dreamt of a babe as beautiful as she’d described, and at first the visions filled her with indescribable joy. But suddenly, the child was ripped from her embrace, and she felt herself plunging into darkness, torn apart by hungry, gnashing teeth. Natalie awoke with her heart thumping. She felt her abdomen tighten and bunch, seeming to roll slightly. She reached down and probed her son’s tiny foot, poking him back into his place. A crow screeched outside, thumping against the sill briefly as a strong gust of wind blew it off its course. Despite the roaring fire in her chamber, it chilled her.

 

*

Queen Natalie awoke two hours later with the sensation of a small troll bringing its foot down on her spine in a pair of iron boots. She gasped as she rolled up in bed, and a low cry escaped her lips. “Lord help me, it burns,” she hissed. She attempted to climb out of bed, but the room seemed to tilt. She managed to push her feet back into the hated slippers and she dragged the heavy blanket around her. Her husband grunted from beneath the remaining covers, then rolled to face her.

“Blast it, woman,” he muttered, “’tisn’t…morning yet…”

“Nay,” she whispered, trying not to alarm him. “It’s the baby.”

“Tell the mite t’go back t’sleep,” he complained as he rolled over. Natalie broke out in a sweat and wished her servants hadn’t stoked up such a heavy fire.

“My love, if it pleases you, perhaps you’d like to tell our son that yourself. He’s coming.” Jean-Luc’s eyes snapped open with that pronouncement. He flipped over onto his back and stared, taking in her condition fully, the way she grasped her lower back in pain.

“Shit,” he hissed. It was a very un-royal thing to say.

“Aye,” she nodded.

“Shit, shit, shit!” He was up in a flash, covers thrown aside, and Jean-Luc flung open the door.

“Summon the midwife!” he roared into the corridor. “NOW! AT ONCE! My son is on his way!” Natalie gratefully watched him tear out of the chamber, glad he didn’t stay to see the droplets of blood that ran all the way down to her foot, staining the floor boards.

 

*

The hours dragged on like days, fraught with tearing pain and worry. Jean-Luc paced in his private chamber while Natalie’s maids and the village midwife toiled in the master suite. Once the lanterns were lit, Jean-Luc nearly fainted at the sight of the large bloodstain on the sheets. The women crowding into the room shooed him out, urging him to give her one last kiss before they began their work.

They brought in various instruments, cord, basins, rags, blankets and boiling water, all of which made him pale. His wife’s skin was pale but her cheeks were florid. “When the sun has risen, our son will be born,” he whispered to her by way of encouragement. She smiled weakly before another contraction wracked her frame.

She smothered a cry, unwilling to alarm him any further.

“Jean-Luc…” she pulled him close. “I love you,” she whispered. “Always.”

He took her hand in his, and it felt more fragile to him. He kissed it tenderly and stroked back her deep chestnut hair from her brow where it was plastered down with sweat.

“I’ll see you with our son in your arms,” he told her. “I love you, my queen.” He found himself shooed out and the door was kicked shut behind him. Not the way he expected to be treated as lord of his castle, obviously, but Clodagh looked menacing as she boiled a pair of silver tongs over the fire. He cringed. That found him here, pacing his chamber while his manservant, Wilfred, stood sentinel by the door.

“Tis a brisk night, sire.” 

"The moon is full,” the king mused. He shared his wife’s fascination with the night sky. “There’s a halo around it.”

“Then the angels are among us tonight,” Wilfred promised hopefully. Their musings were interrupted by horrible, shrill screams.

 

*

“JEAN-LUC!” Natalie cried. Her fingers bit into Clodagh’s hand as another labor pain swelled and reached its crest. She felt as though large, clawlike hands were reaching inside her and pulling her pelvic cradle apart.

“JEAN…LUUUUCC!” The women in the room alternately prayed and cursed as they worked.

“She’s bleeding something awful, Emily!” Clodagh snapped.

“I’ve more rags!” she replied as they knelt at the foot of the bed between the queen’s open knees. The midwife reached down and checked her. She probed the queen’s swollen, elongated cleft, slipping her fingers inside gently and finding the solid presence of the baby’s head.

“The head’s crowning,” she informed them. “MOVE!” She was an ample, formidable woman with a deep voice that struck fear into the hearts of her own babes and her milk toast husband who owned the local wheat mill. The women moved. She cleansed her hands and went to work.

Natalie found her legs manipulated this way and that. “Grasp onto something, Highness,” she ordered, “and then push! Get ready to greet your son!”

 

*

After a torturous hour of deafening screams and frantic knocking on the chamber door that left Wilfred’s knuckles sore, a shrill, lusty squall broke through and was met by a low cheer. Jean-Luc stopped in his tracks and swallowed around a lump in his throat. Wilfred hurried inside and was knocked aside as Jean-Luc barreled out the door.

“Sire…OOF!”

“Out of the way,” he snapped. “Natalie…!”

He sprinted down the hall, again, not in the most royal fashion, nightclothes flapping out behind him and still in his stocking cap. He was panting as he banged on the chamber door. Wilfred huffed his way after him, rubbing his shoulder where his king had clouted him.

The midwife greeted him, face flushed and her dark hair in lank disarray, tendrils escaping her kerchief. Her black eyes were despondent, not full of the radiant pride that should accompany a birth.

“Highness,” she greeted, curtseying. “It is done. Your son is born.” Her somber voice chilled him. A rash of unease made his heart thump unevenly. 

"My queen…”

“Her Highness is…resting,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve settled her more comfortably and given her a draft for the pain.”

"Pain?” he demanded. “Why is my wife still in pain?”

“Sire…please. Please, come in, but lower your voice. It’s best if you do not upset her. She’s…delicate.” He nodded, and Wilfred motioned for the midwife to step aside. She backed away and Jean-Luc strode inside, removing his stocking cap and setting it on the vanity. He combed it back from his face with his fingers impatiently and accepted the greetings from the group of women, all of whom looked too anxious for his taste; some even appeared mournful. Who would mourn the birth of the future king?

As they parted, his eyes fell on his wife. No, she wasn’t resting, nor settled, nor comfortable. Her breathing was ragged and shallow, and Natalie’s skin was wan and clammy when he stroked back her hair. The babe struggled to nurse at her plump breast, squirming in her weak embrace. She was propped on several pillows.

Jean-Luc saw his son’s small round head, crowned with fine curls of his mother’s chestnut brown hair, downy looking in the firelight. His eyes were squinched shut and his skin was wrinkly and pink. Natalie smiled up at him, but it lacked her customary humor and twinkle.

He knew at once that she was dying.

Jean-Luc’s feet carried him to her side, where he sat on the edge of the bed. He merely stroked her hair while tears pricked his eyes, blurring his vision.

“Jean-Luc,” she crooned, “look at your handsome son. Do not weep, husband. This is a happy time.”

“Aye,” he agreed. His finger trembled as he reached out to count his son’s, lightly touching each one. The babe reflexively grasped for more of the contact, squeezing him in his grip, and then Jean-Luc did let the tears roll down his cheeks, salting the crease of his lips. “This…is a happy time, wife.”

He waited for her to console him further, but her wan smile lingered on her face as the light died from her eyes.


	2. New Green

Summary: Hail the new Queen, as the fairest of them all. Or perish.

Author’s Note: This isn’t rocket surgery…sorry. I had to say that. Best malapropism ever when I watched LA Ink this week, I love that show. Enter the Wicked Stepmother, stage left.

Raven loosened the pins from her elaborate hairstyle, already bored with it. Clodagh hurried over with the brush. “Let me, milady.”

“Why? You made a muck of it the first time,” she scolded, sneering. The expression marred her golden good looks. Clodagh looked taken aback.

“Oh. I beg your pardon, milady. Let me arrange it differently, this time. Perhaps some nice curls?”

“They’d better be nice, or I’ll box your ears,” Raven promised, letting her blue eyes drift back toward the mirror. She privately preened, enjoying her reflection and how her new ermine-trimmed green gown fit and flattered her. Her large, creamy breasts rose up from the décolletage temptingly. She ran her finger over the ermine running along the neckline, letting her thumb graze her nipple from over the velvet. She shivered when it hardened, pleased with herself.

Her pampering was interrupted by a high-pitched squall. Raven snorted in disgust.

“Will someone please shut that troublesome brat up,” she snapped.

“Milady, he’s just an infant. He just needs to nurse.”

“Then get his wet nurse, and quickly. I’m tired of listening to him mewling and screeching, he makes my head ache and my stomach turn. Ugh…children. Miserable little things. Why bother? Why not simply own a rabid dog to destroy everything and slaver and drool and feed on you?”

“Er…milady…?”

“Comb me out. And don’t make it hurt.” Clodagh gulped. She could have sworn Raven’s eyes glittered an eerie gold at her hissed warning.

She looked up in relief at the low knock on the door. “A moment, milady.”

“Be quick about it.” Clodagh opened the door and breathed a sigh as she met Wilfred’s stiff presence. The older servant had dark circles under his eyes and he looked drawn.

“His Majesty desires an audience with his queen.”

“Her Majesty is partaking of her morning toilette.” Neither of them remarked that it was nearly noon, and that the queen had been lounging in her quarters, unable to decide at length on a suitable gown, or on which pair of jewel-crusted slippers to wear. It was torture. Clodagh longed to pitch herself from the chamber window.

Emily was spared the brunt of Raven’s cruelties, but only due to the fact that the new queen was constantly ordering her out of her chamber to take back her meals when they were prepared improperly. The scullery maid began a custom of spitting into the queen’s custard under the guise of tasting it to see if it was too hot to eat.

“Perhaps let her Majesty know that her king is expecting guests this afternoon from over the border,” Wilfred suggested, “and that he would appreciate her assistance in overseeing the preparations.”

“Preparations?” Raven replied, in a voice that suddenly oozed ambrosia and honey. She turned in her seat and held up a hand for Clodagh to pause in her grooming. “You may let my husband know that I will be downstairs directly, once I am finished making myself presentable for him.”

“As you wish, Highness.” Wilfred bowed and left, grateful that she was in a reasonable mood and that he wouldn’t have to return to Jean-Luc with a disappointing report.

*

Jean-Luc contemplated a snifter of brandy in his study, watching the sunlight filter through the amber liquid. He downed it in an ungentlemanly gulp and let it burn its way through him, leaving behind a mellow haze, still not enough to take the edge off his grief. Outside, the trees grew lush with new green buds, heralding the arrival of spring. Wildflowers bloomed in a riot of colors across the countryside, and they appeared abundantly in centerpieces at his table every morning, but Jean-Luc couldn’t appreciate their simple beauty.

Thankfully, his new wife’s beauty was a significant distraction seated across from him at each meal. Lady Raven Darkholme, a Swedish princess he’d met at court following Natalie’s burial, was bold in her bid for his attentions, something he found he appreciated. She entertained him with stories of her travels, knew several languages, and like Natalie, was splendid at needlework.

Jean-Luc’s bed was cold and empty at night. His chambers were devoid of Natalie’s laughter, and oh, how it hurt, to see the babe she bore with eyes so much like hers.

All except for their color. Remy was a special child, indeed.

It took Wilfred three days to coax Jean-Luc from his chamber to bathe and take a decent meal, during which time he couldn’t bear to see the baby. Guilt swamped him over his absence, when little Remy had already lost his mother, but Jean-Luc was beside himself. And it was such a shame, Wilfred pondered. He was such a beautiful, perfectly formed little boy.

Over the next three months, little Remy filled out and grew healthy, rosy-cheeked and plump. He was a good-natured baby, only crying over the usual complaints like hunger, wet nappies or the need for his soft bed. His wet nurse and all of the women employed at the castle adored him, so he never lacked for attention, but as if he sensed the connection to his father, he always stilled his gurgles and laughter as soon as Jean-Luc paused in the doorway to visit. He watched his father intently and with an intelligence that surpassed infancy. The canny expression and awareness of him in his son’s eyes stabbed Jean-Luc; his son humbled him.

The dynamic changed as soon as Remy babbled his first word.

Jean-Luc was drawn to the nursery by the sound of low, contented cooing. He cracked open the door and eased inside, nearly silent. The nurse, N’Dare, glanced up from the small chest of the baby’s clothing that she was folding. “Hello, Sire.” She rose and curtsied politely. Jean-Luc nodded, then gestured for her to sit.

“How is he?”

“His young Majesty is just waking up from a nap,” she told him cheerfully. “He’s such a happy baby, Highness. He just lies there nicely, playing when he first gets up.” N’Dare spoke with a rich, deep voice and strong accent from her native land, and her skin was such a dark, lustrous mahogany that it gleamed. Remy loved to hear her sing to him when she rocked him to sleep. 

N’Dare lost her own babe to kidnappers mere days before Remy was born. Her husband, David, looked up from splitting logs for firewood to the sound of his wife’s deafening scream. He rushed to the tiny nursery in their sparely furnished cottage and found the crib empty. There was no blood or signs of an animal entering the house, nor was anything destroyed. The crib and the room were both still in immaculate condition, but the window gaped open, left that way when someone crept inside.

She was a lovely woman, tall and generously built and with soft, exotic features. Her coffee brown eyes were sad but kind, large and slanted elegantly. They now watched her king with concern.

“Sire? Wouldn’t you like to hold him? He misses you.” On cue, Remy ceased chewing on the edge of his blanket and peeked up at him. A plump little dimpled hand reached for him, batting the side of the crib. Jean-Luc rested his hand on the frame, feeling the texture of the expensive damask cloth trimmed in tassels and silk. Remy hooted and grinned up at him.

The beginnings of a smile cracked Jean-Luc’s lips.

Remy gurgled and drooled, kicking his little legs free of the blanket. “Papa!” he crowed. N’Dare clapped her hands.

“His first word!” she cried proudly, eyes shining. “Oh, Highness, wasn’t that wonderful? His first word! And here you were, right when he said it! He knows who you are!”

Jean-Luc swallowed around a lump and he felt his eyes fill. He nodded. “Aye,” he murmured. “He does. He knows me.” He reached down and gently tickled the plump belly. Remy grinned again and let out a full-bodied chuckle. In the corridors of Jean-Luc’s heart, someone opened a door, and rays of sunlight shone through the darkness, returning at long last, no longer stolen.

From that moment, they were inseparable.

*

Remy grew into a bright, cheerful little boy, and his skill for mischief was legend. He followed the chimney sweep into the hearth one day and played with handfuls of the ashes, hopelessly soiling his royal suits. N’Dare scolded him soundly, but she never remained upset with him for long; her prince was the replacement for the child of her womb, but Remy was the child of her heart.

His nurse and governess proved a far more loving mother than the second queen. She tsked as a dirty, giggling Remy ran naked past the doorway to her chamber, N’Dare and Clodagh in pursuit.

“Master Remy! Naughty child! Come here for your bath!”

“No bath!” he taunted as he rounded the corner. Raven nearly tripped over him and shrank back in disgust.

“Oh, my word! FILTHY little URCHIN!” She stumbled back, checking her gown for signs that he might have brushed against her, examining it for offending contaminants. Raven shuddered. Oh, how she despised her stepson.

Her own lady’s maid, Irene, beckoned to her. “He’s just a child, dear heart.” The blind woman continued arranging a bouquet of flowers on the side table to Raven’s liking, even though she couldn’t see what colors any of them were. But her gnarled, skinny fingers handled them expertly, feeling the lengths and thicknesses of their stems, manually counting their petals, knowing their shapes and scents to create the right balance in their arrangement. She was a homely, elderly crone and her rheumy eyes were once blue, but were now faded to an eerie silver. Her voice was scratchy and low, and she was stooped and petite. Irene favored plain gowns in contrast to Raven’s flamboyant wardrobe, and her quiet, calm demeanor complemented Raven’s histrionics and mood swings.

“Wretched creature,” Raven hissed. Irene abandoned her efforts with the flowers and headed to the side table. She extracted a tiny, elegant fan trimmed with gold lace. Raven sat at the vanity, brushing her hair impatiently. “Why is it so damned stuffy in here?” Before Raven could ask for it, Irene snapped open the fan deftly and began to swish drafts of refreshing, cool air across her cheeks. “Oh, bless you.”

“Your ear bobs are in the red box,” she reminded her blandly as Raven began to rummage through the jumble of items in front of her.

“I want the red ones!” Raven snapped.

“They are.” Sure enough, she flipped open the box dubiously, and the rubies winked up at her from their velvet-lined nest.

“Fetch me my rose water.”

“It’s right there,” Irene sighed, taking Raven’s hand and wrapping it around the small purple bottle, which she’d taken out of its drawer before she began fiddling with the spotted lilies. “Victor will be here with a scroll for you in an hour. Give or take.”

“A scroll?” Raven frowned. “From who?”

“An admirer,” she shrugged.

“Surely you don’t mean to tell me you don’t know?” Raven accused.

“No. That’s how he signed the letter he sent with it,” Irene sniffed. “Do give me some credit, mistress.” It was a reasonable request; Irene’s instincts had never failed Raven before. Irene had the gift of psychic sight. Her spirit guides revealed the future to her in visions only she could see, an irony that never failed to make her wistful.

“Perhaps I’d be more generous in my regard of you if you weren’t such a flibbertigibbet,” Raven complained, but there was a hint of affection in her voice.

“Yes, but I’m YOUR flibbertigibbet,” Irene corrected her absently as she picked up Raven’s hairbrush. She ran it through the mass of golden curls in long, lazy strokes.

“Hmmph…” Raven attached the ear bobs and toyed with them, pleased at how they looked with the gleaming, red satin gown. The décolletage was unsuitably deep for mid-afternoon, and the creamy hills of her breasts rose up from the snug basque. Raven was tall and gifted with an hourglass figure. Her seamstresses emphasized it to brilliant and expensive effect with various silks and sari fabric, velvets and taffetas, brocades and chiffons, never skimping on ribbons and lace. They plied their needles, creating exquisite embroidery along sleeves and hems, often until their fingers blistered, but the effect was worth it.

Raven offered Jean-Luc an account that Irene had been her governess as a child, and that she retained the older woman as a lady’s maid. She told herself that her husband didn’t need to know that she’d spun a tiny white lie, bending the truth just a hair…Irene and Raven were raised in the same cradle. Raven was a foundling.

*

 

Her father was hunting one day and found a huge silver wolf snuffling around a large oak tree, worrying the edge of a dark brown bundle on the ground. He nearly ignored it until he heard a tiny voice squalling from within it.

“A child!” he cried, right before he grasped his blade by the tip and flung it neatly, cleaving neatly through the animal’s skull. He hurried forward and kicked aside the brute’s carcass. His hand shook as he lifted aside the blanket.

“Great saints,” he cursed. The child took his breath away, not in appreciation of its beauty, but in naked shock. He recoiled at first from the sight of cobalt blue skin and the almost reptilian yellow eyes that blinked up at him. The infant was squalling and screaming up a storm, tiny fists waving in the air. She had hair as red as blood, not even a civilized auburn hue. Surely the gods found offense with the child’s mother to allow such an eerie, unearthly combination. But out of humanitarian instinct, he reached for the child, scooping it into his arms and supporting the fragile head. She whimpered and shrieked, then began to chew on her tiny fingers, rooting for nourishment. “It’s all right, little wretch. Let’s get you home.”

He didn’t ponder why the child was out in the open, alone. Surely no mother in her right mind would desire a child such as this… 

He bundled her up more deeply into her blanket and carried her away on his horse. He rode through a sudden storm that brewed from previously pristine white clouds before he reached the forest clearing. By the time he reached his hovel, the sky opened up and vomited seeming buckets of stinging, freezing rain. Crows took flight into the darkness, seeming to wink in and out of the bilious clouds and bare ebon branches. He stomped inside, dropping the wolf’s carcass beside the hearth. His wife looked up with a start, eyes growing round at the sight of the beast. She gaped at him.

“What on earth took you so long, I was worried shitless!” she snapped. She struggled up from her seat and clumped over with her uneven gait due to a badly clubbed foot. She tugged insistently on his coat sleeve. “What’s that?”

“I think you mean ‘who,’ wife,” he muttered. “Lovely to see you again, too, my delicate flower.”

“Hand it over, don’t give me that nonsense,” she told him, holding out her arms impatiently. He gently hefted the child over, lifting aside the blankets. 

She nearly had a heart attack, mouth gaping open to scream. The hunter clapped his hand sharply over her mouth, lest he wake the child again, who still hadn’t eaten and who abused his ears with her shrieks on the ride home.

“Shhhhh,” he hushed. “The mite’s a demon, I’ll give you that, both in looks and temperament.”

“Then why did you bring it home? Surely the child will rile up the evil eye! Haven’t we had enough of curses, husband? Have you gone completely daft?” She indicated her cane in the corner of the room. He sighed, and then turned his back on her as he trudged back to their tiny bedroom.

He peered inside at the cradle, where his daughter lay napping obediently, warm and well-fed. He smiled at the sight of her reddish curls and baby plumpness, the way her cheeks made suckling motions as though she’d enjoyed her last meal. The child had dirt-poor parents, but they gave her everything humanly possible on their limited means.

All except for her sight. Little Irene Adler was born completely blind. The tiny cottage was full of religious artifacts, crosses, candles and other totems to ward off what his wife had named a curse that fell over their home. They didn’t need any more hardship, but the hunter was adamant.

“She has nothing. She was abandoned. No one can choose the family they’re born into, but you can choose to offer a family to a child who has none,” he determined. “Feed her. Poor mite’s starving something fierce.” His wife grumbled, but she took the squirming, snuffling infant to her rocker by the hearth, lowered the blanket, and put her to her breast. Sure enough, the child nursed ravenously, clinging to her source of nourishment with grasping fingers that tangled in the woman’s braid and nicked her breast. She made a note to herself to trim her tiny fingernails; who had taken such poor care of this child?

*

Raven was named for the flock of birds that her father watched the night that he found her. His wife grumbled at him that he invited more misfortune into their lives, naming an innocent after a token of bad fortune, but he scoffed. It was a strong, straightforward name for a child who would need it. Life would be unforgiving for a freak, even if she was an intelligent, striking misfit.

When both girls reached a certain age, they each acquired gifts that defied the “curse” over their house and turned their lives onto a different path. Raven led Irene to school, protectively sheltering the smaller girl from things like tree branches and protruding, craggy stones and roots.

“Watch out for that bird. It’ll get tangled in your hair,” her sister warned.

“What bird? There aren’t any,” Raven accused. But before she could blister her sister’s ears with her usual barbs, a small starling divebombed them, chittering as it swooped down for the small twig of berries that somehow tangled in Raven’s hair on their journey. Raven shrieked and sobbed, swatting at it as she danced about. “IRENE! GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT! OH, GODS, PLEASE! Don’t let this nasty, shitty thing stay in my hair!”

“Hush,” Irene scolded, reaching for her sister and holding her still. Raven continued to sob and work up a fuss, wringing her hands as Irene attempted to fix her predicament. Irene nimbly shooed away the bird, freeing its talons from a clump of Raven’s hair, still the same vague, deep red. She also found the twig, working it loose and tossing it away.

“Catastrophe averted!” she announced cheerfully, patting Raven’s cheek. She drew her hand back curiously, alarmed that it was damp. “Don’t cry.”

“M’not,” Raven snapped, dashing away tears where more threatened to fall. She sniffled as she continued walking down their winding path. She tried to ignore her sister’s entreaties drifting after her.

“’Twas just a bird,” Irene reminded her.

“You’re just a rotten brat,” Raven reminded her just as sweetly. Irene giggled, then trotted after her.

School was an ordeal for them both. Both girls were brilliant pupils; Irene managed to have excellent handwriting despite her disability. But their classmates were merciless. Raven often came home with ink in her hair and the nasty older boys often snuck snails into their lunch pails or threw frogs down their backs. The other girls in their class whispered and gossiped viciously about them, feeling no pity for either of them. The scoffed at their shabby clothing, despite that the girls were always impeccably clean and well-groomed. Their dresses often came back torn when they returned home from play yard skirmishes that Raven frequently won.

“That wasn’t very ladylike,” Irene reminded her when Raven gave the butcher’s fat, pig-eyed son a black eye for tripping Irene.

“Shut up, sister,” she muttered. “I couldn’t give two shits.”

But she could, and Raven did. She prayed endless nights as a little girl but was slowly losing hope of rising above their dismal, cursed existence. She no longer took solace in her mother’s well-meaning lies and tales of ugly ducklings that grew into beautiful swans. She knew what her mirror told her everyday, no matter how often she begged it for a different account.

She was hideous. A freak.

One day, in a fit of pique, she hurled it across the room, shattering it into tiny, glittering shards. Irene ran into their suite at the sound of the crash.

“I hate myself,” Raven whispered. Irene nodded, then crossed the room smoothly and silently. She dropped down beside Raven where she knelt despondently on the floor and folded her into a sheltering embrace.

“I wish I were different. I wish I were perfect,” she wept as she clung to Irene, stroking her sister’s hair, an obedient, acceptable shade of strawberry blonde.

“You are different.”

“That’s not what I mean. Not different from everyone else. Different from how I am now,” she argued miserably, sniffling. “I wish I could show them all. If I were beautiful, I could trod them beneath my heel. I would have the last laugh. I’d have money, and we’d live in the finest house. We’d wear the finest silk and sup on the finest meat. And they’d never put ink in my hair again.”

“You enjoying kicking people’s arses. You’ve grown awfully good at it,” Irene reminded her sagely.

“When I’m beautiful, I’ll do it because I want to. Not because I have to,” she promised. Irene didn’t point out that Raven said “when,” not “if.” She also didn’t share the vision that she had, fleeting but stunning the moment she heard the mirror crash. Aye, Raven would be perfect. Stunningly beautiful. Cruel. Ruthless.

All in the blink of an eye.

*

Irene grew quieter and more introspective over the next few days. Spring was proving warm and balmy. The forest the girls inhabited became a sprawling tangle of bounty. They picked apples and harvested blackberries from among the brambles, heedless of occasional scratches and snags. They no longer spoke of the broken mirror, nor of the welts on Raven’s back when their father whipped her soundly for breaking something so precious and irreplaceable. Irene suddenly looked up from the basket she was filling with the succulent little fruits and grabbed Raven’s wrist, stilling her.

“Hush,” she hissed.

“Irene, what-!”

“They’re watching us,” she whispered. “Come. Hurry.” She grasped Raven’s wrist and dragged her behind her, running into a small copse.

“There’s no one here,” Raven huffed after her.

“Quiet!” Irene demanded. Her sister’s pulse was thundering beneath Raven’s thumb, and her stomach twisted with tension. Their footfalls were uneven, leaves and twigs crackling under their feet. They ran until their lungs burned. “Stay away from that tree,” Irene warned, nodding to a huge, gnarled oak.

“There’s no one!” Raven insisted, but she felt an eerie, tingling flush down her spine. Her sister was so adamant that they were in peril, and she trusted Irene ever since the incident in the woods. Birds chattered above them, reminding her grimly of the starling. Raven hated birdsong and the sight of the creatures dining on grubs, lustily tugging worms from the ground with their razor-sharp beaks. They sickened her.

So they waited it out, hiding behind a fallen, rotted hollow log. They ignored the fox kits wandering among the brush and the ants that crawled over their feet. Raven and Irene’s hearts hammered long, exhaustive minutes.

“Wait until the sun changes its position in the sky. Until the shade from those branches falls over that rock,” Irene whispered. “Then it will be safe.”

“Irene,” Raven demanded in a low, angry whisper, “what the hell did you see?”

“Don’t swear, sister.”

“Don’t make me throttle you. I will, Irene. You know I will. Tell me.”

“I saw you crying. Screaming. You were in the dark. There were worms crawling over your face. And…” Irene paused. A tear trickled down her cheek. “There was so much blood. All over your hands. You got some on me. And then…”

“And then what?” Raven felt the blood rush from her cheeks. She was about to faint. Her hand gripped Irene’s for strength, but her sister had little to offer.

“You left me.”

*

They waited until they fell into a fitful doze. Raven awoke with a stiff neck. Irene stirred slightly, head burrowed into Raven’s shoulder for comfort. Raven rubbed at the kink, smothering a grumble.

“I’m tired of this. Let’s go.” She pulled a sulking Irene to her feet. “Grab the basket.”

“Raven,” Irene told her. “Wait.”

“Irene, it’s late!” She began to head for the clearing. She stopped at the oak and pointed. “Look, there’s the apple bushel. Father will kill us if we don’t bring it back-“

Her words were cut short as two pairs of hands grabbed her. Irene screamed.

*

Dusk.

It was a perilous time, when nocturnal creatures began to stir from their burrows and when the shadows merged overhead, blurring the sure path home.

They threw her into an abandoned hunter’s pit after binding her hands. Raven bruised her shoulders and shins when she tumbled, scraping her skin badly enough to bleed. They ignored Irene’s cries, slapping her for her troubles.

“Don’t get hysterical. Your sister’s an ugly bitch, but she’s tough as an ox. She’ll find her way out.”

“You can help her,” another voice taunted Irene. “Oh, that’s right…you can’t.”

“You’re… horrid,” Irene sobbed. Her face was a ruin of tears and dirt and her hair was a tangled mess, full of twigs and torn loose from her neat plaits. They toyed with her, knocking her about, shoving her. She felt the boys’ rough hands, but it was the girl’s dulcet voice that she despised the most. 

Valerie Cooper was the bane of Raven’s existence. She was the miller’s daughter, and her parents were obnoxiously rich. She was spoiled, an only child, and overindulged. As a result, Valerie was a cruel, selfish little girl despite her golden good looks. The other children in the village’s school flocked to her, delighting in her pranks and the insults she rained on the two village freaks, the Adler twins.

She grew into a beautiful sixteen-year-old woman, blonde, buxom and creamy-skinned. Her hair was a molten spill of honey-streaked curls and she had large, wide-spaced eyes like blue sapphires. Raven silently envied her perfect white teeth and how her cheeks dimpled when she smiled.

Valerie towered over the weeping blind girl. “Don’t forget Raven’s present,” she sneered. Mortimer, a short, homely boy who worshipped Valerie, ambled over with a basket. He upended it, scattering its contents down upon Raven where she knelt in the pit. He guffawed as the clumps of dirt rained upon her, bringing with it wriggling bugs and grubs. Raven screamed long and shrill.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! PLEASE, STOP!” Her sobs were pitiful. She spat out the dirt, then shrieked when a worm wriggled across her nose from her hair. She tumbled over from where she knelt, then rolled to her back to inch back from the barrage of filth, revulsed.

“Stay down in the dirt where you belong. You’re just an insect, Raven. Ugly, worthless freak,” Valerie spat. She ran over to Irene and caught the berry basket by the handle.

“Give that back,” Irene demanded through her teeth. Valerie laughed scornfully. Who did this girl think she was to tell her what to do? Valerie reached in and grabbed a handful of berries, cramming some into her mouth.

“Mmmmm. Yummy. Thanks for working so hard to pick these for me,” she jibed. Mortimer and the stocky older boy with Slavic features, Stavros, sniggered as they devoured most of the fruit, then dumped out the rest, stomping them into the ground. Irene pawed the ground for a rock, then jumped to her feet when she found one. She hurled it at the sound of the boys’ voices.

“Get her out!” she screamed. Her throat ached, but they were done with listening to her.

“You get her out,” Valerie mocked. “C’mon. I’m late for supper.” 

“The hell with that,” Stavros muttered, laughing nastily. He eyed Irene with an ugly, calculating gleam in his eye. “Raven likes her present so much, it’d be criminal not to give this one a present, too.”

“She should be thanking us for getting rid of that wretch. Now you won’t have your sister dragging you down, Irene!”

“She…she n-never dragged me down,” Irene wept. She stared hatefully at them all, even though she couldn’t see them, and they were unnerved by her glare and the fire in her sightless eyes. Then she yelped as she felt two pairs of hands grabbing at her again, dragging her away from the sound of Valerie’s voice. “LET GO OF ME!”

Raven felt her heart seized by panic at the change in her sister’s cries. She hated the sound of the boys’ laughter and the scuffle of Irene’s feet across the dry brush and leaves. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she demanded.

“Mind your business, bitch,” Mortimer assured her. “We’re just having fun with her!” 

Raven listened, horrified, at the sound of tearing fabric and a slap against what sounded like human flesh. Her heart pounded and she couldn’t quell the wretched cold sweat breaking out on her skin or the sick feeling in her stomach that she couldn’t defend Irene. Pure, sweet Irene, who never felt anyone touch her with anything but kindness, carefully sheltered by her foster sister and doting parents.

Irene struggled, but they tore the sleeve of her dress as they tried to yank down her bodice. She chafed at the feeling of the cold ground as they shoved her down. “She’s got better tits than you, Val,” Mortimer laughed as he pushed down the homespun fabric and exposed a pert, shapely breast. He rolled the soft, pale pink nipple roughly, sickening her with the feel of his unwelcome hands. Stavros held her wrists up over her head while Mortimer fumbled with her skirts, avoiding her kicking feet. He shoved her legs apart, cursing as she managed to bring her booted heel down on his hand. “OW!” He slapped her again, and she whimpered when he tossed her skirt up, grinning at the sight of her long, well-rounded thighs and the plain white bloomers. “Not all that fancy, Stav.”

“Like an old granny’s,” his friend agreed. His cock stiffened at the sight of her when Mort yanked down the drawers, revealing her sweet little sex, its plump lips covered by a sparse, soft mound of reddish hair. “A real redhead, though, I’ll give her that.” Irene began screaming again when he stroked her belly and combed his fingers down into the curling patch. Her stomach pitched, and she began to gag.

“Quit wasting your time with her,” Valerie snapped, but the boys were tired of her voice after a while. They nodded to each other.

“Let’s ditch her.”

“Right.” They dragged Irene to up and snatched her away, running with her several meters away. The dumped her behind a tree and overpowered her again. She was weak and out of breath and hated the feel of the hard ground at her back, the smell of their sweat and harsh breath as one of them suckled her breasts, now that her dress was completely torn open and both of them were bare. Fingers invaded her, probing her snug, unyielding wetness. “Tight little thing.”

“Won’t be for long.”

She screamed, an ear-splitting sound that tore from her throat when she already thought she had no voice left. She didn’t see their faces grinning evilly down into her face as they pushed themselves into her, burning and tearing at her insides. “Gettin’ tired of listenin’ to her, but she feels nice.”

“The virgins always do. All nice and hot and wet,” Mort grunted. Irene sobbed and hiccupped, wondering when they would have enough and leave her alone. But all along, she thought of Raven, what her sister had to be hearing, knowing she was just as helpless as she was. That thought allowed her to slowly retreat inside herself, into an emotional black hole that swallowed up her pain, briefly taking it away. She no longer heard them, no longer paid attention to their rutting or the blood dripping down in runnels until the cleft of her bottom.

*

 

For the next hour, all Raven could do was listen to her sister’s weak sobs above her.

She didn’t know when she first realized Irene’s hurried steps were approaching the rim of the trap. Irene was clutching her bodice shut, and she looked like hell, face streaked with tears and her hair a mad tangle.

“I don’t know how to get you out,” Irene kept muttering. “Lord, please, tell me what to do…”

“Don’t cry for me,” Raven grunted. The grubs and worms were attacking her, slithering beneath her clothing and crawling over her sore skin. She still smarted from her fall, and the cold bit into her tiny wounds. Overhead, a crow cawed from the huge oak, warning them that they’d reached the witching hour. Their mother was beside herself by now.

“Don’t cry for me, Irene,” Raven insisted as she struggled. She toyed with the ropes binding her wrists. Her movements rubbed her skin raw, but she continued to writhe and manipulate her arms.

I wish I were long and skinny as a snake, she mused. With long, skinny arms and fingers. 

Through an act of will, she breathed in stertorous, harsh breaths, working her shoulders until she almost dislocated one, and her hand slipped free of its bond. “Shit!” she cried as she rolled to her stomach. Her arm flopped limply to the ground and her palm smacked the leaves. She throbbed, but she was no longer bound. Raven flexed her blood-starved fingers, hating the resulting, painful tingles.

A trick of the light made her hand look…dessicated. Her fingers seemed longer, almost wraithlike in the darkness. She closed her eyes, then shook herself. When she opened them again, her fingers slowly shrank back to their usual condition.

“What the hell?”

“RAVEN!” Irene cried. “Are you there?”

“I’m here, sister. I…untied myself.”

“RAVEN! THANK THE GODS! COME BACK! PLEASE!” Irene peered over the edge of the pit, long tattered plaits dangling down like ropes around her dirty, tear-streaked face. Irene was sickly and pale in the fading light.

“I’m coming,” Raven promised. She stood and limped to the side of the pit, looking for anything that she could boost herself up on. She found a few tree roots and tugged on them, but it didn’t help. Raven kicked off her shabby slippers in the hope that she could get a foot hold, and she attempted to climb. “Find a stick, Irene,” Raven suggested.

“Raven, I’m so scared,” Irene sobbed.

“Damn it,” Raven hissed. It grew colder, and she felt the grubs squirming around her toes, making her skin crawl. “Damn bugs. I hope the shitty birds eat you for their supper.” If Raven had wings, she could loft herself up and fly them home, but it wasn’t in the cards. Once again, she wished she were a snake, or better yet, a lizard with long, sharp talons and keen dexterity.

Her fingers dug into the dirt effortlessly, giving her purchase. Her shoulders strained and burned with the attempts to levy herself up. Her toes, as if wanting to aid her climb, lengthened and stretched, and she punched them into the wall of stony, hard-packed earth, clinging to the ropy vines and roots as easily as her hands would rope. She stretched, reached and grasped, one arm after the other, seeing the growing radiance from the moon slicking over her blue-black flesh. Raven’s lungs burned and the rocks bit into her skin, making her bleed.

She rose from the pit, struggling for air. Her airway was constricted with fear and her chest felt tight. Her breastbone and shoulders screamed for relief as she hoisted herself out, pushing herself up onto the waiting grass.

“Raven!” Irene gasped. “Tell me it’s you!”

“It’s me, you ninny,” she muttered, coughing. She spat out a grub, then vomited onto the ground.

When she saw Irene up close and realized what had been done to her, she wanted to vomit again.

*

 

The girls wandered home, dragging the apple bushel along. Irene never released Raven’s hand, but it felt stranger to her, somehow. Her fingers were icy and seemed longer, bonier, and she could have sworn one of Raven’s nails inadvertently nicked her flesh. She huddled close to her for warmth and found little.

“Thank the gods that you’re all right,” she whispered.

“I’m not all right,” Raven said bluntly. She wanted to shake her sister and scream at her, You’re not all right, either!

“You’re here with me,” Irene pronounced.

“I yearn to be anywhere but here.” They heard crickets as they reached their cottage, and Raven stopped Irene a few yards from the door. “I need to wash.”

“Mother will be furious.”

“She already is. We’re filthy. Might as well bring the water in.” She wandered toward the well and found the rickety bucket. Raven turned the crank, lowering it down until she heard the splash and deep gurgle. She pulled it up, hating the burn of the rusty metal against her scraped palm. The water was crystal-clear and caught the reflection of the moonlight. She dipped her hands into it gratefully and splashed her face, scrubbing at her grimy cheeks.

“Don’t dirty it up like that,” Irene scolded.

“Get your own,” Raven snapped. She continued to wash her face and hands, but then she paused, really taking a look at them.

Her fingers resembled lizard’s talons. Her nails curved into cruel-looking, hooked black claws, hard as slate. Her blue skin was a strange, crepey texture, not wrinkled, but wearing a coat of what looked like scales.

“Gods preserve me,” Raven whispered. “Irene…”

“Raven, come inside.”

“I can’t. Look.”

“I can’t,” Irene sighed, “or have you forgotten.”

“Come here, please?” Irene had never heard her sister sound meek a day in her life. She didn’t like this meek, frightened voice calling her over to the well, not one bit. Irene joined her at the stone-lined wall.

“What’s the matter?”

“Take my hand.” Irene obeyed her, again disconcerted by how cold her skin was. She let her fingers run over her knuckles, fingers and nails slowly.

“Raven…are those…claws?”

“Aye,” she mumbled.

“All right, then.” And with that, Irene fainted dead away. Raven shrieked.

*

 

The next few minutes were a blur.

Raven was hustled inside, and she cringed back from her mother’s glare and her father’s shouts as he carried Irene inside. He railed at her soundly, cursing her stupidity for keeping Irene out so late and endangering their safety. Raven’s mother settled Irene in her room, laying her on the bed and covering her with a heavy blanket.

“What’s wrong with you?” he cried. 

“Father…!”

“How DARE you!” He swung out one large hand and slapped her hard, making her ears ring. Raven spun away and wept, rocking herself. She hid from his shame, but he took her shoulders and shook her. “How dare you fail your sister like that! Bringing her home, cold and dirty! And you’re in no better shape! How could y-“ The sight of his foster daughter stole his words and breath away. “Gods above…what happened to you?”

“She’s a changeling,” her mother whispered. She dropped the cool cloth she’d just dunked into a basin to bathe Irene’s face and neck.

“No. She always was,” her father replied numbly. “Now…she’s a demon.”

“Father…no. Please.”

It was true. Irene hadn’t been able to see the fine coat of scales that now covered Raven from head to toe. Only now, she only had three on each foot, revealed by her now bare feet. She’d worried her father would thrash her for losing shoes that cost good money. Raven’s amber eyes shimmered in the firelight, pupils slitting reflexively to handle the increased radiance as she widened them.

“Get. Out.”

“Father, NO!”

“OUT! OUT OF MY HOUSE, DEMON! WITCH’S SPAWN!” You’ve cursed our home long enough!”

It flew in the face of his hopes, destroying the last of them. He’d always prayed that it wasn’t just their lot in life to dwell in misfortune and poverty, and he wanted to believe that Raven and Irene would each make their way, somehow. It was foolish to ask his god every night to let each of them marry generous men of means who wouldn’t beat them or trod them under their heels, but he couldn’t hold out much hope for Raven. She was intelligent and cunning but hideous. Even her tall, winsome body wouldn’t hold any appeal with its gleaming blue skin and that…he could only call it devilishly red hair how, the color of blood.

Raven’s hands rose to cover her mouth, and she turned to her mother, beseeching her.

“I have nothing for you here. I disown you. Leave our home.”

“Mother!”

“You’re not my child.”

As the second child who fed at her breast whirled and ran out of the house, her heart broke. Irene wept, but she held her back in bed when she tried to get up to run after Raven.

*

 

The change was Valerie’s fault.

Raven told herself this as she ran. She didn’t know where she was going. She ignored the pebbles and leaves beneath her feet, even when they grew slick with her blood. She stumbled, recovered, and ran again toward the edge of the village, drawn by the torches and lanterns outside. Food. She hadn’t eaten, and her stomach clawed with hunger.

She could steal something, perhaps. She hoped someone had a loaf of bread cooling on a sill, or that she could steal scraps before they were thrown out. Like her.

She hid in a garden and found some radishes. She barely paused to clean them off on her filthy skirts before she crammed them into her mouth. She rooted and dug in the freshly turned dirt and found a potato. She dug into it with a sharp-edged rock, puncturing the side of the tuber enough to reveal its succulent white flesh. She crunched down into it, heedless of the bland taste. If she managed to build a fire later, she could cook the rest of it, but in the meantime, she needed nourishment.

Raven took her leave when she heard a man hurry out from the back door of the well-appointed cottage. “Get out of my yard!” he cried, holding up his lantern. “I know yer out there, ya little brats!” Raven scooted behind the trees before he could get a good look at her. He made a low threat to come back with his rifle, making up Raven’s mind for her that it was a good idea to skedaddle.

She ran again, keeping to back yards and alleys. She hated the dank feel of the cold ground on her bare feet; she could need to steal some shoes, too, or find some wrappings of some kind. An old burlap flour sack provided the temporary solution to her problem when she tore it in two and bound her feet.

The sounds of laughter jarred her from her musings. She heard the high, feminine giggle of the one girl she despised most.

“She had worms in her hair,” she said distastefully.

“Val, that’s cruel,” tsked Emma, another of Raven’s classmates, who was just as privileged. Emma Frost’s father owned a millinery, and he sent her to school in the fanciest bonnets and pristine white frocks.

“We left her in the dirt, right where she belonged.”

Shock evoked another change in Raven’s body. Her talons retracted, and slowly, the scales began to fall away, leaving behind only smooth blue skin. Raven curled her toes, peering down at them. There were five on each foot now, once more. She was relieved and could almost weep with joy. Now she could go home!

…only she couldn’t. Could she.

Nay. Her parents banished her. She no longer had a home, or a family, or even a name. Demon, they’d called her. Witch’s spawn.

Raven’s blood simmered in her veins. Her cheeks felt hot and she tasted bitterness on her tongue. Her hands balled up into fists, and she dropped the half-eaten potato.

They’d made her change. She knew this, that her transformation was borne from the need to survive, and to adapt. Out of desperation, her flesh molded itself into the form she’d needed most, with only a thought. Raven wondered dimly why she hadn’t been able to do it before.

She listened to the girls gloating and felt her anger grow.

“Her sister just sat there, crying like a little blubber baby.”

“You’re horrid, Valerie. I’ll bet she made a mess out of herself.”

“She was already a mess. Both of them were. We did the world a favor, throwing out that garbage.”

“You left Irene there in the woods?”

“She’s not helpless,” Valerie scoffed. “She writes better than I can, even though I can’t imagine how. She knows her away around the class without any trouble. I’ll bet her blindness is only an act.”

“That’s ridiculous. And if she found her way home, then she’ll tell.”

“Nay. Never. She knows I’d never allow it.”

“It’s not up to you to allow anyone anything, anymore.” Raven crept out from the shadows. She grasped a small lantern hanging from a hook over the doorway of the Coopers’ house. They stared at her, reviled and disgusted.

“Ew. Look at you, you’re wretched.”

“Yuck,” Emma agreed. “Get away from here, you beast!”

“You bitch,” Raven spat at Valerie. “You made my sister cry.”

“So? You cried pretty loud, too,” Valerie joked, enjoying herself. She folded her arms beneath her breasts smugly. “You just laid there with the worms all over you, like the slug you are. Gods, Raven, you’re such a freak. No one likes you. You should have never been born.”

Raven felt dread swamp her. She’d spoken that thought aloud to herself every day since she was old enough recognize her own reflection in the pond, watching her features warp and ripple in its glassy surface.

“Why don’t you just roll over and die?” Emma crowed as Valerie stepped forward and poked Raven in the center of her chest, hard.

“You first.”

Before Emma could even blink, Raven clutched the lantern, bring it up in a roundhouse swing and plowing it through Valerie’s patrician face. Blood spurted from her nose, spraying over her light blue muslin gown. Emma clapped her hands over her mouth, nauseated and terrified. The blow felt so good that Raven delivered another one, bashing her with it so hard that the metal frame of the lantern bent. Power surged through Raven’s body, spiked by adrenaline and hatred. She’d always longed to wipe the smug look from Valerie’s face, but now her face was gone, too, mangling and buckling with each blow, ivory skin disappearing under pools of sticky red gore. Her blood drained back into her blonde hair, staining it. Emma stumbled back, trembling.

“You’re…a monster,” she gasped.

“Really? I’m not the one that tied someone up and threw them into a pit to rot. A monster would also scare a helpless blind girl and abandon her on a cold, dark night. But I’m the monster. You found Valerie’s little story entertaining, didn’t you? You like how she threw out the trash.”

“Please…leave me alone. I-I’ll p-pay you. Look at y-you, you’re poor and dirty. You don’t have to be. I’ll never tell, if you’ll just let me go.”

“I like seeing you like this.”

“What?”

“Afraid. Begging. Just like Irene.” Raven’s pupils slitted again, and she swung out with a clawed hand, not pausing to wonder about the change again. Three long, cruel bloody streaks tore open Emma’s perfect ivory cheek. Emma stumbled back, stunned, and she gave a low, gurgling cry as she fled.

Raven sped after her, ignoring her aching feet and the cold air. Emma was now a liability. Raven calculated her options as she admired Emma’s flight, seeing how gracefully her white skirts whipped out behind her as she ran. She closed in on her, and Emma’s heart pounded at the rush of nearly silent footsteps that practically ran up her heels.

Raven’s bulk barreled into her, knocking the wind from her lungs. She landed face-first in the dirt and clawed futilely at it, trying to drag herself from beneath the blue-skinned, alien creature who was breathing down her neck. Raven drove her knee into her back, wrenching a cry from her lips. “OOOWW!”

“Shut up!” Raven tangled her fingers in Emma’s hair, fisting her hand in it and yanking hard. It was so satisfying to do what she’d always dreamed after having so many of her serviceable, clean dresses ruined by girls like Emma dipping her pigtails into the inkwell. 

“You can’t do this to me! You’re nothing! You’re garbage! HELP! HELP ME!” Emma cried, but her shrieks were low and strangled since she couldn’t gulp in enough air.

“You’ve wasted enough space, far long enough,” Raven muttered. She crooked her arm around Emma’s slender neck, grasped her head in her long, bony hand and jerked, twisting her neck until it snapped.

It was a stroke of luck that Emma hadn’t bled on her fine white dress. It was just Raven’s size.

*

Raven trod in the new, purloined slippers through the woods, tugging the crudely covered bodies with inhuman strength in a rickety wheelbarrow. She felt like she’d walked for miles, but she refused to stop until she reached a familiar clearing. Panting, she reached the huge oak and set down the lantern. Raven wheeled the cart to the mouth of the pit and stared down into it resolutely.

As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Raven Adler didn’t exist anymore. Valerie had no doubt bragged to her friends that Raven was left behind in the pit, either too humiliated to return to school or as good as dead. What galled her the most was that she was considered an untouchable. Filth. No one would mourn her disappearance or even ponder it with their morning porridge.

The pit was abandoned. It would be a long time before anyone thought to check it; there were no new snares nearby, no lures set with fresh meat hanging from the trees. By the time either girl was found, no one would recognize their bodies.

Raven tugged them onto the ground and callously stripped them down. She bundled their clothes in a neat heap, separating Emma’s dress from Valerie’s bloodied garb. Raven then set about building a fire to provide herself some heat and light, driving away the beasts of the woods. She ignored the low hoots of an owl as she removed the bracelet from Emma’s wrist and the sapphire and silver rings from her fingers. She considered it a stroke of luck when she found a tiny mirror tucked in her bodice; the silly bint was, indeed, vain. Raven peered down into it. The scales had faded away again, and her eyes held less of that reptilian cast, but what if…?

She concentrated on Emma’s face, stroking her cold cheek. The unnatural bend of her neck no longer sickened Raven; if anything, she was growing more and more pleased with her handiwork. Raven focused on her awareness of her own body, trying to wield the power she felt inside when she struck Valerie, to find that strength. She remembered the fear on the girl’s face as she gazed upon her, seeing the cruel mask Raven’s face had twisted itself into, and she wondered if she could effect the change just by wishing for it.

“I wish I were perfect,” she said aloud.

And when Raven opened her eyes again and stared into the mirror, her wish was granted.

*

 

Raven left the wheelbarrow behind. Her legs were limp and she was exhausted, but she trudged back to the village in the stolen slippers. She wished she’d kept her cloak, but she had to burn it along with the rest of her own clothing, as well as Valerie’s. Such a shame, really; the blue dress would have suited her quite well, too.

When she reached Emma’s home, her mother fell upon her, shouting in relief that she’d found her. Raven quickly concocted a tale of being dragged from the garden by robbers when she went to the well, and that they’d grown tired of her fighting and cast her from their wagon. Tragically, Valerie, they’d kept. Her screams would haunt her…

Raven stayed up half the night, weeping prettily to the constable and sheriff until her mother shooed her upstairs. She fetched “Emma” some warm chicken broth and soft white bread, bathed her and dressed her in a fine linen nightgown. Her new mother gazed down lovingly into her face, as usual awed by her young, golden beauty.

“You’ve had enough of an ordeal, darling. Rest.”

It was the soundest, most comfortable sleep Raven ever had.

*

Emma Frost turned up missing a week later. Villagers unearthed her body from a shallow grave in the woods when they found some of her clothing nearby, inexplicably bloody. Raven grew bored with the blonde’s sheltered life, finally tired of her mother’s tendency to fawn over her, something she’d initially enjoyed when she entered the Frost household. Raven felt smothered, and Emma and Valerie’s friends annoyed her, constantly flocking to her to spread their gossip and talk of nothing but new slippers and how to curl their hair. Raven found out the hard way that Emma’s virtue was questionable, at best, when Stavros dragged her aside one day and tried to lift her skirts in the school’s cloak room. He closed in on her, grinning devilishly, and the stocky boy drove her back against the wall, grinding against her.

“Have you lost your mind?” Raven demanded incredulously. His hamlike hand was groping her breast, trying to drag down the delicate lace fichu around her neckline. She was repulsed by the feel of his tongue bathing her neck and his hot breath.

“Someone’s feeling naughty, aren’t we, little bird?” he leered. “Give us a kiss…OW!” He did her a favor, lifting her skirt; it left her knee free to shot up into his groin. She kicked him aside and righted her clothing as she stormed out.

That was the last straw. She’d had enough of the village, enough of the school that no longer added anything to her body of knowledge. Raven grew jaded quickly, and she knew she had to move on. 

It was easy enough to make Emma “die” again; it was merely a matter of separating the bodies. The worms were enjoying their feast so far. Valerie, she left behind. She gave her corpse a little kick before she dragged Emma from the pit.

“Who’s been thrown away now?” Raven muttered.

 

*

Raven made herself over according to her mood, but she favored blonde beauty the most; it was nice to stick with the classics. Irene hummed to herself as she brushed Raven’s hair. Her own had grown silver over the years, but thanks to her gift, Raven never aged. Raven paused her sister’s chore to take the soft, wizened hand in hers.

“You came back for me,” Irene told her.

“I could never leave you behind. You need me.”

“Because it could never be the other way around,” Irene tsked, and she reached down to savagely tweak Raven’s ear.

“Never.” Raven’s smile was almost, but not quite, warm.

 

Raven napped for the next hour, feeling no doubts over Irene’s vision; there was no reason to make any pressing plans that would remove her from her chamber. Irene answered Victor’s low knock moments after Raven woke. Irene looked up, up, up into Victor’s craggy face, since he was a giant. He felt the same chill the old, blind crone always instilled in him, since her eyes still managed to follow him whenever they spoke.

“Give me the scroll,” Irene told him sharply. “I’ll leave it for her.”

“Where do you want me to set the box?”

“What box?”

“The gift. It’s downstairs.”

“Why didn’t you bring it up with you, foolish man,” Irene snapped. “Milady’s surrounded by incompetents.” Irene never referred to Raven as her foster sister among the king’s other staff. Irene feigned irritation with him to mask her surprise; her vision hadn’t included a box.

Victor grunted. “Milady’s surrounded by mighty nice digs, if y’ask me.”

“No one asked you,” Irene pointed out. “Go. Bring it up, and quickly.”

“Aye,” he muttered as he backed out of the doorway, mindful of how short it was. Victor was a giant of a man and the most intimidating servant the king had. Victor admired Jean-Luc’s comely second wife, silently lusting after her, but there was something about her that was slightly…off. Victor couldn’t put his finger on it, but she was easy on the eyes. He tried to stare past Irene into the chamber to get a glimpse of Raven, but Irene was quick.

“Put your eyes back in your head, lecher.” She slammed the door in his face and almost smiled at his muffled curse.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Raven murmured sleepily from her pillow.

“Don’t waste your time on that one,” Irene warned. Then she paused. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Irene had a fleeting vision of Victor’s future, and she shivered. “Never mind, sister.”

Victor lumbered down the corridor and found himself jerking to a halt as a tiny body darted out in front of him. “Hey!” Victor grumbled, piqued. The imp scuttled into the first open door he found, naked as the day he was born. Moments later, N’Dare nearly knocked him down.

“Which way did he go?”

“That way.”

“Goodness, that child can run…” she huffed. Victor snorted. The whelp was a handful. Cute kid, though, he mused. He’d break hearts one day, surely. In the meantime, Victor found it amusing that Prince Remy clearly hated clothes. Victor headed downstairs and retrieved the large box. He hauled it upstairs with little effort, hoisting it over his beefy shoulder. He set it down gently in Raven’s parlor, since the queen was now awake and decently covered in her dressing gown. She watched him with interest as he pried it open and carefully extracted a large panel wrapped in several layers of cloth. 

“Goodness,” Raven murmured. “It’s big.”

“You like extravagant gestures well enough,” Irene sniffed.

“Be careful with it!” Raven scolded as Victor unwound the cloth. Inch by inch, he revealed a large, gleaming mirror framed in burnished gold. Its border was elaborately carved in a scalloped pattern, and crowning it was the sculpted visage of a woman, so realistic looking that Raven thought it would speak to her.

“Pretty…trinket,” Victor huffed as he struggled to hang it in just the right spot over the vanity. The old one stood propped against the side table.

“Don’t smudge it,” Raven warned him. “It’s no doubt worth more than your miserable life.”

“There,” Victor grunted once he finished. Raven made him do it over again three times before she was pleased with it.

“Out,” she ordered. “I tire of your stench. You reek.”

“You’re welcome, Highness,” Victor said cheekily as he took his leave, treating himself to one last glance at her cleavage. Raven made a sound of disgust.

“Wretch.”

“Lech,” Irene corrected her.

 

The mirror became her favorite possession, and obsession. Raven slowly abandoned all of her books, needlework, paintings and other hobbies as her fascination with it grew. Like Raven, the mirror possessed a special gift, becoming as indispensable as Irene.

Raven preened herself in front of it a fortnight later, smoothing her hands over her gown. She smiled, pleased. “Perfect,” she murmured. Her blue eyes glowed amber, briefly, but reverted as Jean-Luc’s voice traveled down the hall to her ears. She exited her chamber to meet him and escort him down to supper.

The finely sculpted face adorning the mirror frame smiled more widely at her departure. “Yes, Mistress. Perfect.”


	3. Unfair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A jealous queen. An innocent boy. A life in peril.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I enjoyed writing the last chapter! No real smut of note, but hey, bring on the angst and PG13 violence, my muses are having a good time. Okay, we’re kinda heading into Brothers Grimm territory here, but don’t expect cute Disney dwarves and singing animals. Well, maybe just one, but he’s a baritone.

Summary: A jealous queen. An innocent boy. A life in peril.

Author’s Note: I enjoyed writing the last chapter! No real smut of note, but hey, bring on the angst and PG13 violence, my muses are having a good time. Okay, we’re kinda heading into Brothers Grimm territory here, but don’t expect cute Disney dwarves and singing animals. Well, maybe just one, but he’s a baritone.

N’Dare fumbled for a lantern in the near-darkness of her chamber and lit it, letting it guide her carefully into the corridor. She headed two doors down to Prince Remy’s suites and gently turned the knob. She heard him moaning and crying out in his sleep, and her heart went out to him. N’Dare noticed that his favorite sleep toy lay on the floor. She scooped it up and set the lantern on the side table. “Master Remy,” she murmured, “it’s all right. I’m here, you don’t have to be frightened.”

“No,” he whimpered in his sleep. “Make the monsters go ‘way…” He sobbed and struggled out of the covers, and N’Dare carefully patted his chest, rubbing it soothingly.

“Shhhhhhhh…” she urged. “It’s all right, dear heart. It was a nightmare.”

“The monsters’ll get me!” he insisted in a petulant whine. He struggled to sit up, and she collected him to her in a fierce hug. Remy breathed in her sweet, comforting scent and the soft warmth of her body. His fingers toyed with the fringes of N’Dare’s shawl. “Don’t let them take me away.”

“Never. Never, ever,” she promised. “No monsters are getting my baby.” She knew it was presumptuous of her, but the familiarity soothed him, and it was instinctive. “Where’s Sunshine?” he implored. “I need her!”

“She’s right here,” N’Dare assured him, handing him back the dollie. It always amused her that she liked it so much, and it seemed only fitting. The rag doll was growing worn from so much use, the closest thing Remy owned to a baby blanket. N’Dare made it with her own two hands from some scraps of brown muslin. The dollie’s hair was looped into curls and made from white wool yarn. She embroidered the doll’s features into a pleasing smile, and she stitched the eyes from robin’s egg blue thread.

N’Dare made the doll for her daughter while she still carried the child in her womb. During the day time, Remy favored all of the toys that rough little boys loved, such as trains and rocking horses, wagons and blocks, telescopes and his tiny magnifying glass, but the doll was special. “Sunshine” smelled like the woman he’d come to regard as his mother. The doll had her love sewn into it, and it was therefore cherished and precious.

The fading flames in the fireplace flickered, casting golden light over Remy’s face. He was a handsome child already at five; N’Dare couldn’t imagine how much his physical beauty would grow as he reached maturity. She noticed his stunning eyes slowly drooping, growing drowsy as she rocked him back and forth. He yawned and rubbed his cheek against her shoulder.

“You should go back to bed.”

“M’not…tired,” he lied sleepily, yawning again. “C’n I have a story?”

“Master Remy, it’s late.”

“Please?”

“You’ve heard all of mine already,” she pointed out.

“I can tell him one,” Jean-Luc suggested from the doorway. He’d crept inside quietly, drawn to his son’s low cries. Remy craned his neck to peek at his father from around his nanny’s shoulder and grinned.

“Papa! Can I have one of Papa’s stories?”

“I’m not the one you have to ask,” N’Dare chuckled. She patted his head before Jean-Luc knelt by the bed.

“How is he?”

“Frightened by monsters, but none the worse for wear.”

“No monsters get to nibble my son’s toes,” Jean-Luc agreed.

“Monsters don’t nibble toes,” Remy argued as his father pulled him from the bed, scooped him up and carried him to the rocking chair by the hearth. He took the blanket N’Dare offered him, as well as Remy’s doll and bundled his son up in his lap.

“Yours might have looked awfully tasty,” Jean-Luc mused. 

“Because you’re such a sweet little boy,” N’Dare teased.

“You taste delicious,” Jean-Luc added, pretending to gobble his son’s neck. Remy giggled and pushed his father’s face away.

“PAPA!”

“Your father was just having fun with you. All right. Story time, then time for bed,” N’Dare suggested.

“You see that, Remy? Now you’re gotten both of us in trouble with Nanny.”

“No I didn’t,” Remy complained.

“That’s the thanks I get for my stories.”

“Are there monsters in it?”

“No. But there’s a little boy in it who likes to run with the wolves. He howls at the moon.”

“A little boy as big as me?”

“Just like you. But this is a wild little boy who’s fast and strong, and he’s not afraid of anything.” Jean-Luc spun him an elaborate tale that included forest creatures and mythical beasts, featuring a little boy who was afraid of nothing, not even monsters. Remy fought to stay awake, but his father’s low, rumbling voice and the vibrations of it through his broad chest where Remy rested his cheek lulled him to sleep.

“Still the master of bedtime stories,” N’Dare mused as Jean-Luc carefully laid Remy down, turning down the covers as he tucked his son in. He carefully folded the doll into the crook of Remy’s arm.

“That’s one of my most important jobs in the house,” Jean-Luc boasted. N’Dare chuckled.

“You do it well, sire.”

*

 

Five years later:

 

Raven rose from her table of guests, prompting all of them to stand at once. “My dear friends, I need a few minutes to refresh myself, so I must take my leave. Do have some more tea and cakes. Talk amongst yourselves.” It went without saying that they would gossip about her in spades the moment she left, but Raven appreciated the niceties and dealt with the little things.

She was growing bored again. The restlessness ate at her.

Her new life – her most RECENT life – was pleasant enough, certainly. Raven had “replaced” women of different stations throughout her life, for different reasons. She had been a baker’s wife, a thief, a nun, a whore. Women with higher stations held their own amusements, especially those who reveled in cuckoldry. With each marriage she usurped, Raven learned new skills both in an out of the sheets, taking new lovers and discarding them like old slippers. Raven was a cuckoo, stealing the nests and lives of other birds for herself and moving on when she had outgrown it, whenever she felt hemmed in.

But this life was different. She was a queen. One didn’t simply stop being a queen. Raven adored the disposable wealth and luxury, as well as the respect, something she craved from the cradle. But the most addictive aspect of her life was seeing the barest hint of fear in her subjects’ eyes whenever they bowed to her, not because she was hideous, but because she was full in charge and held immeasurable power over them. It was a drug, a rush.

Jean-Luc was pleasant enough. He was a strapping, virile man in his upper forties, ruggedly handsome, and a very capable lover. His only vices were his pipe and the occasional snifter of brandy, and unfortunately, his son.

Raven couldn’t stand the little brat. Her resentment of him grew the more he thrived. Whenever his accursed nanny brought him into the room, Jean-Luc dropped whatever he was doing, or in many instances, abandoned his conversations with his queen to attend to the boy. Remy was rowdy and uninhibited, leading half the staff in a merry chase at bedtimes, naptimes, mealtimes, and of course, bath times. He was sure-footed and nimble, giving Raven many near-scrapes as he just missed colliding with her in the corridor or in the garden. He developed a favorite hobby of jumping out at her kneecaps in the castle’s maze hedge outside.

But most of all, Raven seethed with envy every time she looked upon the boy. Remy was remarkably beautiful, so beautiful that you couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

Sunlight seemed to love him and follow him throughout the castle. It made his long, cinnamon-brown hair gleam with hidden highlights of auburn and gold. His skin was fair and smooth as rich cream, and his cheeks and lips were rosy with good health. But the young prince’s most striking feature were his eyes.

They glowed. The prince was born with the most exotic eyes the kingdom ever saw, and no one could fathom figure out what made them look that way. Was it a blessing? A curse? A trick of the light? No one knew. But the irises were sparkling crimson, brighter and more marvelous than rubies. His pupils were surrounded by a narrow band of fiery gold that lent his eyes a warmth that drew you in when you stared into them, not unlike staring into a campfire on a cold night and watching the heat ripple as it diffused into the air. His schlera were black as obsidian; what should have been the whites of his eyes were anything but. They were fringed with long, thick, dark lashes, and Remy’s eyes always twinkled with mischief.

The villagers wondered if this child of Helios, god of the sun, rode down to the earth on a ray of sunshine to warm it with his light. Remy was good-natured, mischievous and lovable, and he was the light of his father’s life ever since he was widowed. Raven grumbled to herself. He was a child, for goodness sake. Babies brought nothing but misery, vomit and soiled pants. But children old enough to speak were the worst nuisance of all.

Raven felt a headache building in her temples as soon as Remy hurried into the room, refusing to walk in slowly, like a gentleman. Raven blamed N’Dare for coddling him. “Excuse me,” Raven pleaded, and everyone obediently bade her to take her time, that they would wait with bated breath until her return.

Raven kicked her chamber door shut behind her, heedless of her new, jewel-crusted slippers of silver satin. She sighed raggedly.

“I’m so…bored,” she said to no one in particular.

“What would make you happy, Mistress?”

Raven’s hand flew up to her breast. “Who said that?” she demanded, hurrying about the room, turning in a slow circle, wondering if a robber had broken into the castle.

“That would be me, Mistress. Over here.” Raven spun around and stared at the vanity. The voice beckoned to her patiently. “Up a little.” Raven gawked at the carved face atop the mirror, which was now beaming at her. BEAMING. “Hallo,” it offered her shyly. “You look lovely today, truly, Majesty.”

“What…how…am I going mad?”

“I surely hope not. My last mistress did, but I assure you, Majesty, that wasn’t my fault. There was something that perhaps…wasn’t quite right with her, my Queen. But you seem fit as a fiddle, don’t you?”

“Er…yes. So I’ve been told.” Raven approached the mirror slowly.

“I won’t bite. Please, relax. Have one of those sweets that your maid left. Irene, isn’t it?”

“Her name’s Irene, yes.”

“Stately thing. Cares about you a lot, doesn’t she?”

“It’s her station. She’s beholden to me.”

“Oh, no. She’s closer than that. You can tell. I heard you call her ‘sister’ once. I thought perhaps she was from a convent in the village when you said that. She dresses rather plainly, too, so that fed my assumption. But you know what they say about people who assume, right? So I won’t assume anymore.”

“I’d appreciate that. But perhaps, instead of assuming things…you would be nice enough to tell me how you BLOODY WELL TALK????”

“Oh. That. Well, it’s rather complicated. You wouldn’t prefer asking me something else?”

“That’s relative. I’m still reconciling myself to the fact that I’m talking to an inaminate object.”

“I’m actually quite animated,” the mirror boasted.

“Who made you?”

“A wizard in his final years. He had no family, so he created me to act as his contact with the outside world, and so he’d have someone to talk to everyday. His health was failing, but I couldn’t do anything about that, now could I?”

“So what did you do?” Raven sat and nibbled on one of the small white teacakes on a silver tray.

“Just stayed with him. And I showed him what was happening around town to amuse and inform him.”

“You showed him? How?”

“Like this. Tell me where you want me to take you.”

“What, like a ride somewhere?” Raven scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the mirror boasted. The head’s eyes glowed, brightening the room with radiance, and Raven nearly choked on the sweet as her own image in the mirror’s surface evaporated, replaced with an image of the front of the castle. “His Majesty is on his way out riding. He didn’t think you’d mind.” Raven did mind, since half the people who joined them for tea were Jean-Luc’s colleagues and wives, all of whom Raven found irredeemably dull. “He took Prince Remy along with him. Sweet little thing, isn’t he?”

“Nay,” Raven sniped.

“Oh. All right, then.” The image continued to shift, and Raven saw the activity inside of every room of the castle and in the surrounding woods and gardens. The mirror enjoyed this part, and the face began cheerfully narrating each scene, as though it was a story. “Here we have Wilfred polishing the silver in the study. He works so hard, but I heard him complaining to Clodagh that his back has been hurting him, and she makes a liniment for it that she said she’d let him try…oh, and there’s Irene, coming down the hall. I’ve been meaning to tell her hello…”

“No need,” Irene explained calmly as she entered the room without knocking. “Greetings, Cerebra.”

“How did you know my name?”

“I just have a way of knowing these things.”

“How lovely! Me, too!” the mirror chuckled. “Our lady Irene is a real corker, Mistress!”

“Thank you,” Irene said with a nod.

“If I’m not stark, raving mad by now, I should be,” Raven muttered.

“Madness is for peasants. Among royalty, it’s known as being ‘indisposed.’ Have another cookie, Raven,” Irene suggested, handing her the tray.

“Oh, there’s Emily in the kitchen. Split pea soup for dinner.”

“Yuck,” Raven muttered.

“Oh, Mistress, pray don’t tell her that; she’d be crushed.”

“She’ll get over it. Irene, send down word to the silly wretch that I plan on rarebit for supper, and to start with turtle soup instead.

“What’s going on outside?” Irene inquired. Her visions had only given her an inkling so far, and the images were hazy.

“A ride. They’re enjoying the countryside,” Cerebra shared. Raven saw Jean-Luc and Remy sharing a horse, and Jean-Luc looked delighted with his son’s company as Remy pointed to a scurrying fox in the brush. “Looks like they’ve saddled up half the royal stable, Mistress.”

“Bully for them.”

“Speaking of stables, let’s see what’s going on there…oh.” Raven looked up into the mirror’s surface after taking a fresh bite of her butter cookie, then spat it out in a fit of coughing. Irene pounded her on the back.

“What’s the matter?”

“You…*kaff*…don’t want…t’know,” Raven choked. The image in the mirror was detailed and clear as a bell, revealing a tall, naked Victor rutting into Charlie, the cook’s eldest son. He had him bent over a haystack, moaning and crying out how good the giant huntsmen felt.

“I can only imagine,” Irene quipped.

“Well, don’t,” Raven ordered. “It’s…unfit for polite eyes.” But Raven’s roved over the image of the two of them, admiring their hard, sculpted bodies slicked with sweat. Victor’s hair was pulled loose from its customary club, hanging in messy blond tendrils around his face. There was primitive satisfaction written across his features as he dominated his medium-sized, dark-haired partner, gripping his hips hard as he slammed into him. Victor was well-endowed, and his large, rosy manhood kept disappearing up to the hilt inside Charlie’s rounded, supple cheeks. The young chef’s apprentice was clearly enjoying it, if his sharp grunts and cries of Victor’s name were any indication. Victor swung his hand out and swatted his ass none too gently, leaving a rosy mark on his skin.

Heat rose up into Raven’s cheeks.

Victor was so masterful that Raven thought she would faint. She imagined what it would feel like to mount him herself, to feel his throbbing, solid girth plunging inside her, those rough, calloused hands groping her breasts, twisting and pulling at her nipples…

She grew wet. Victor finished with Charlie when the younger man came, his thick seed spurting out into the hay. He looked surprised but delighted when Victor flipped him onto his back and his face descended to his cock to lap up what was left, fingers already probing his hole to take him again.

“Er, Mirror…”

“Cerebra,” she corrected her.

“Let’s just stick with ‘Mirror,’ and make it easier for me. Er…no need to move from the stables just yet.”

“As you wish, Mistress.”

“Irene, you may go.”

*

 

Remy and Jean-Luc dismounted at the stables, and Jean-Luc indulged his son in some more time outside, allowing him to help his footmen curry the horses. Remy enjoyed animals and he was good with them, even managing to charm beasts that were untamed. He watched his son with pride as Remy stroked the dappled mare’s nose, whispering to it and blowing gently into its nostrils. Over the past few years, Remy had grown several hands in height; he would only need a few more inches before he could look his father in the eye.

Remy noticed Charlie hurrying from the back of the shed, fumbling with the buttons on his white shirt. “The kitchen’s that way!” Remy crowed, pointing to the back of the castle. Charlie looked up, flushed bright red, and paused to duck into a hasty bow.

“How was your ride, your Highness?”

“We had fun! You look like you just got back from one, too!” Remy shouted. Charlie looked mortified, knowing the young prince couldn’t have meant anything by it, but Jean-Luc just looked at his apprentice chef with an odd gleam. Charlie bowed again, this time to his king, before he rushed off. From the back of the stables, Victor silently smoked his pipe, looking smug and pleased with himself.

“Hope he’s making tarts,” Remy muttered as he continued to brush the mare’s coat. At the age of ten, he had a hollow leg and loved food.

“Aye, Master Remy. I was helpin’ him make tarts a little while ago,” Victor teased.

“No you weren’t! You can’t even cook!” Remy argued, grinning at the huntsman. 

“I always help Charlie heat things up in the kitchen. Ask him! Go on!”

“I will! I’ll ask him right now!” Remy challenged. Victor threw back his head and roared with laughter. Jean-Luc cleared his throat loudly. Victor contained himself, but he enjoyed the thought of torturing his current tryst with the boy’s innocent questions. Charlie was a good sport, in more ways than one.

“You do that, Master Remy.” He ruffled Remy’s shining hair fondly, then patted him on the back.

*

 

The spring progressed with bountiful harvests and a forest teeming with new litters of creatures that promised successful hunts in the autumn. As the seasons changed, Raven grew more and more fascinated with the mirror’s possibilities.

Cerebra knew of Raven’s gifts, being one of the only two beings in the castle who had ever witnessed her changes back to her true form. Cerebra was an excellent confidante, and she only spoke to Raven and Irene, since the queen was her mistress and as such, owned her loyalty. Cerebra could see anywhere in the world, transmitting her visions to Raven through her scrying glass. Raven could see or hear what anyone was doing, any time, and it entertained her no end. The queen spied on her counterparts in distant lands prior to their visits to their kingdom, sending word to her seamstresses that her gown needed more lace, had to be made from richer silk; she couldn’t be less exquisitely dressed than her guests; it just wasn’t acceptable.

She enjoyed the misfortunes of others most, whether it was Victor making excuses to poor Charlie that it wouldn’t work out and seeing him weep into his apron while he rolled out the pie crust, to watching a young boy sob in the street when his mongrel pup ran beneath a wagon’s wheels. She asked the mirror to show her hometown and her family’s old cottage in the woods. To her delight, it was rundown and derelict, its shingles falling off the roof and the garden a tangle of dead weeds. She knew her father had died of a heart attack not long after he drove Raven out; her mother passed away of consumption soon after. Raven would shed no tears over her parents who couldn’t accept her when it mattered most.

Raven began each day with a leisurely bath and her grooming regimen, which was extensive. Every time she sat before the vanity, she asked Cerebra, “Am I beautiful?”

“You are perfect, Mistress,” Cerebra would reply. “You are absolutely perfect.” Raven would smile at this, then nod to Irene with the clipped demand, “Proceed.” Irene would send for Clodagh to style her hair while Irene helped select her clothing for the day. She spent the rest of the day making occasional appearances for Jean-Luc, seeking him out while Remy went with his tutors for his lessons. Raven spent her time shopping in the village, sending orders to the shop vendors to close their doors for the day to allow her to make her selections in private. She attended court within her region and watched tennis games and jousting matches, satisfied that she was the ruler of all she surveyed, and that nothing could ruin it.

Except her own vanity.

*

 

Two years passed in an inkling. Raven’s stepson was a strapping twelve-year-old who threatened to tower over her if he continued to eat like a longshoreman at sea. She tolerated him, barely.

The staff adored him more than ever. The entire kitchen staff knew his favorites by rote, often superseding Raven’s menu choices and requests. Remy joined Victor and the other palace huntsmen on afternoon treks and went fishing with his father whenever Jean-Luc could spare his precious time. Jean-Luc began to ignore his wife more as his son proved to be a more suitable companion to pass his time with. They played chess, studied the spinning globe together while Remy took his geography lessons and Jean-Luc planned his business trips and trading expeditions, and took evening rides in the woods.

Irene’s mood swings and bouts of silence troubled Raven.

“I don’t trust you when you’re too quiet. You’re like a child planning mischief.”

“No. Just thinking of how best to avoid it.”

“Pah…” Raven muttered as she picked up her pot of rouge. She thought better of it, when with a blink of her blue eyes, urged more rosy color into her cheeks. There, much better… “Why avoid it, when it’s so much fun?”

“What do you think about, in regard to the future, sister?”

“I never do. That’s why I have you. And Cerebra,” Raven reminded her, smirking.

“Raven,” Irene told her, laying her hand over her sister’s shoulder. “One day, you won’t.”

All of Raven’s efforts with her powers were lost as she paled. Her blue eyes flashed an angry amber and a deep divot formed between her brows as she scowled for the first time in several decades. “Never say that. Never speak those words again.”

“I’m mortal, dear heart. I’m only human.”

“No. You’re special, and I need you, and you’re being foolish.” Raven took Irene’s hands and squeezed them. “You’ll never leave my side. Look at us now, Irene. We have everything! Anything your heart could desire is at our fingertips!”

“You’re still restless,” Irene told her with a sigh. “Raven…don’t step outside your means. Don’t want too much.” Raven shrank back from her, releasing her hands.

“What on earth does that mean?”

“It means what it means. You have a husband. You have a son, if you wish to treat him as such. You have a home. You have friends. Don’t throw that away on glory and power.”

“I don’t have to. I already have them!” Raven boasted, irritated with her sister. She turned back to the mirror and pressed her lips together, making them rosy.

“By marriage, yes,” Irene said.

“Not by birth, Mistress.” Cerebra blinked awake at the sounds of distress in the chamber. She could feel Raven’s tension and the hint of despair in Irene’s voice, and it saddened the sentient spirit inside her. “You hold power by marriage until Prince Remy turns twenty years old. Then the kingdom belongs to him. The prince will succeed King Jean-Luc upon his demise, not you.”

A crust of ice wrapped itself around Raven’s black heart.

*

 

Raven was oddly subdued over the next few days. Remy had no problem with this. He found his stepmother tiresome. Every time anyone in the castle brought a picnic, Queen Raven brought the rain.

He knew she glared at his retreating back whenever he left the room. Remy had good instincts, not unlike his aunt Irene, but in a different sense. Instead of the future, Remy could read people.

From infancy, he knew his stepmother didn’t love him. He wailed loudly the first time Jean-Luc attempted to place him in her arms, quieting only when his father collected him back and bounced him gently, singing to him. “He may need a nap,” Jean-Luc explained. “Or he might be teething.” Raven didn’t believe him for a moment. The brat knew she hated him.

The baby always chose just the right moment to soil his diapers or spit up, usually whenever Raven approached Jean-Luc while he held Remy. Remy always fidgeted and struggled away from her whenever she occupied his space for peremptory visits to the nursery.

The child sensed the jumble of dark emotions inside Raven’s heart, a maelstrom of simmering hurts, anger and resentment. He realized it wasn’t just directed at him; Raven had little affection for anyone, except Irene, her elderly maid. Irene occasionally smiled at him, and he sensed no malice in her, but Remy never felt entirely comfortable in her presence, either. Raven and Irene constantly whispered and conspired with each other, practically joined at the hip.

Remy’s gift began to slowly manifest itself in the form of charm that bewitched everyone he met. Women adored him; men admired him and immediately respected him. There was always a place at the gaming table or chess board for Remy, always a place at the hearth or in the stable, always a pipe to sneak him or a pint of ale for him to sample when no one was looking. Remy was benevolently spoiled, but he was a loving child who tried hard to please.

He fully realized his mother’s prayer that she offered up the night he was born, owning the beauty she bequeathed him. Skin pure, smooth and white as snow, with eyes that glowed like the most precious rubies against pitch-black velvet.

Like any other adolescent, Remy had his awkward moments. His voice began to crack at inconvenient times and sometimes, he felt clumsy. He was growing fast, too quickly for his long legs to keep up with his center of gravity, and his body began to realize he was a male of the species. Remy woke up to find more of the strange, wiry bits of auburn hair growing where it didn’t before. He had growing pains and grew frustrated with the stiffness between his legs whose source he couldn’t figure out, but it made his ears burn with embarrassment whenever Nanny stopped by to wake him for the day. She soon gave the task to Wilfred, Jean-Luc’s groom, out of a need to protect his dignity and to let her little prince grow up.

*

 

Raven woke up in a peevish mood that she shared freely with the entire staff. 

“Emily, you call this porridge? I’ve tasted better bath water. Take it away!”

“Wilfred, don’t lie to me and tell me you picked those flowers this morning! They’re half-wilted,” she snapped, plucking a fresh white chrysanthemum from the vase and ruthlessly beheading it, shaking it at him. “Throw them out. Pick some fresh ones immediately.”

“Victor,” she snapped as she accosted him in the stables. “Take off your pants.”

Raven abused the huntsman the least frequently, or at least in a more favorable manner. Once Victor began picking up the queen’s signals, they began an “arrangement” that suited them both well. Victor had open preferences, enjoying men as much as female partners in his bed, but Raven was winsome and voluptuous, demanding and sensual, and something predatory in her blue eyes made him shiver. Sometimes they met in the stables. Some nights found her in his chamber well after midnight, when she’d conveniently taken sick and begged off sleeping in the same room with Jean-Luc.

But in the stables, they could be as loud as they pleased. Victor sat atop a haystack he’d covered with a saddle blanket, while Raven rode him astride, both of them naked and glistening with sweat. Raven’s kisses were hungry and nipping, scoring his lips until they were swollen. Victor groaned into her mouth with satisfaction as she took from him, plundering her mouth with his tongue before laving a heated path down her slender white neck. His greedy hands fondled her breasts, toying with her peaked, rosy pink nipples. Raven took him in to the hilt, rising and falling in hard thrusts against him.

Remy snuck downstairs for a glass of warm milk, troubled by an uncharacteristic bout of insomnia. Normally he begged off of bedtime but trudged to his chamber at Jean-Luc’s insistence while the adults enjoyed their evening port, and Remy inevitably fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. But not tonight. There was something charged and tense in the air, something about the night that tasted and felt wrong.

Remy helped himself to a butter cookie and a handful of almonds when he reached the kitchen, then found the milk, pouring himself a tall glass. He was halfway through the creamy liquid when he heard what sounded like a high-pitched cry. Remy set down the glass gently and tiptoed out of the kitchen, sneaking out into the gardens.

There it was again. And again. Remy grunted under his breath. The voice sounded female, which puzzled him even more. What woman in her right mind would be outside at this time of night? Remy pondered whether he should wake the palace guard and have one of his father’s soldier’s investigate it…

Curiosity won out. Remy followed the source of the noise toward the stables.

*

 

Raven was on her back now, spent and limp from her first climax. Victor loomed over her now, with her legs hooked over his shoulders as he pounded into her. Gods, he felt incredible… she felt waves of pleasure radiate inside her in growing ripples, like raindrops striking the surface of a pond. Oh, there it was again, that keen, pitch-perfect throb of Victor’s manhood striking that sweet, secret spot within her body at just the right pace, just hard enough, just deeply enough…

“Fuck me, Victor,” she hissed.

“Damn you, woman,” he huffed, kissing her hard. There were no pleasantries or formalities between them when they made love; Raven was “milady” in the study but she was Victor’s woman in the stable, even though he didn’t lie to himself in regard to whom she belonged. Raven was her own woman, period. Raven’s long nails raked his back, leaving stinging welts, and he pounded into her harder, faster, losing himself in her slick heat. Raven fell over the edge a second time, and Victor only allowed himself his own fulfillment once Raven trembled and spasmed around his member.

Remy stopped twenty feet shy of the stable and felt the powerful lust rolling off of the two adults inside. He recoiled, and Remy felt shame and embarrassment when he realized who both sets of emotions belonged to. He clapped his hands over his mouth and spun, bolting for the safety of the kitchen once more.

Remy hurled himself up the stairs as quietly as he could manage. He made it all the way to his room before he wretched into a chamber pot.

Remy collapsed into his bed and huddled beneath the blankets, needing to feel secure, but his world had upended itself.

*

 

The changes in the royal household were subtle at first. Remy was more subdued in his stepmother’s presence, frequently abandoning conversations as soon as she entered the room. Raven was initially pleased to hear less of his smart aleck banter and boring accounts of the fish that he caught or the new tricks he taught Jean-Luc’s hunting hounds.

But Raven became concerned when the lad also began to ignore Victor. Remy and Victor were always fond of each other before; the huntsman enjoyed the young prince’s antics and cheerful disposition, but Remy’s demeanor grew sullen when Victor joined them on rides or expeditions. The change raised Victor’s hackles, and there was something in Remy’s eyes that seemed to burn right through him.

Jean-Luc noticed the difference and decided to investigate, starting with his wife.

“Enter,” Raven demanded at the brisk knock at her door. Jean-Luc’s expression surprised her, full of concern, telling her he was in no mood for nonsense or parlor tricks. She cleared her throat, and out of habit, increased the luminescence of her blue eyes, the sheen of her blonde hair, and the creaminess of her skin. Raven’s ability to enhance her own beauty was her weapon of choice when dealing with her husband.

Oh, she had no doubts that he loved her, but she had her own agenda, her own needs. Raven kept up the continual ruse of who she was through complex planning and subterfuge. They maintained separate quarters; when they shared a bed, it was a transient, brief stay for Raven. It didn’t take much effort on her part. A few honeyed words, a seductive peignoir and letting her hair fall gracefully down her back, and some of Jean-Luc’s beloved cognac, conveniently dosed with a sleeping sedative. She offered her husband the cup each night that he arrived at her door; he’d taken to drinking it every night before bed when Natalie had left his life to dull the pain. It served Raven’s purpose more effectively.

Jean-Luc never saw his wife’s early morning state of dishabille, because she ensured Irene woke her every day before he got his wits about him, particularly before the sleeping draught wore off. He knew nothing of his wife’s impoverished childhood or less than genteel manner. Raven shuddered at the thought of him discovering her true state; one look at her cobalt blue skin and yellow eyes, and he’d denounce her as a demon.

Still…what was the matter with the brat? Raven knew children went through moody phases, but Remy’s newfound silence was unsettling.

 

Raven sat at her mirror one afternoon, reviewing her jewelry choices. She held up the diamond choker at her throat, favoring it over the opals, even though they were a nice counterpoint to the wisteria green silk gown trimmed in cream-colored, scalloped lace.

“Mirror,” she mused, addressing her own reflection instead of the sentient, attentive face above the frame, “am I beautiful today?”

“Yes, Mistress,” she told her, dutifully and sincerely.

“Do I look perfect?”

“Yes, Mistress. You look perfect.” This pleased Raven, as usual.

She set aside the choker for a moment and told her, “Show me what’s happening in the castle.”

“Whom would you like to visit first?”

“Jean-Luc.”

“He’s in the study with the palace physician, Mistress.”

“Whatever for?”

“Here.” Cerebra’s surface clouded over, taking away Raven’s reflection and shifting to a scene of the study. Jean-Luc was pacing across the fine Oriental rug, demonstrative and upset, while the bearded doctor nodded and sought to placate him.

“…I don’t know what’s gotten into my son. He’s changed, and I know there’s something dreadfully wrong. Something’s happened to Remy, and he refuses to tell me.”

“Does he have any playmates? Any peers his own age?”

“No. None that he cares to spend any time with. My colleagues who have children indulge them so much that they’re spoiled and a horrible influence.”

“It wouldn’t do to shelter him so much, sire. The young prince is of an age where he’s still discovering who he is. He’s a prince, Majesty, but he’s also a young man. Boys his age have a lot on their minds, and they are still finding their identity.”

“He’s not sleeping,” Jean-Luc pronounced. “He has no energy for the things that he loves. There are shadows beneath his eyes.” Jean-Luc banged his fist on his desk. “I know something has happened, or he’s seen something, or heard something that’s affected him.”

“I can speak with him if you like, Majesty.”

“Can you help him sleep?”

“I can prescribe a potion, but finding out what upset him may help the most to restore his restful nights. Is he eating properly?”

“Well enough.” But with less enthusiasm, Jean-Luc considered. Remy ate perfunctory portions and toyed with the rest the night before, making it only halfway through the savory rabbit stew, his favorite, when he normally would have devoured a second helping. Remy seldom initiated conversations with his father anymore, but then something else occurred to him.

“He acts oddly around his mother.”

“Excuse me, sire?”

“He’s more standoffish around her.”

“How about when he’s with you? Still affectionate?” The physician was no stranger to the dynamic of the LeBeau royal family. He saw the queen curling her lip at the young prince when Jean-Luc’s back was turned often enough; she was nothing like Jean-Luc’s first wife, a benevolent, pleasant woman who treated the staff and her husband with the utmost respect.

“Just…odd. Fearful.”

“Afraid of you?”

“No…just…it’s as if he’s afraid FOR me. Does that make sense?”

“Unusual, indeed.” The physician made some notes with his quill, then set it back in the inkstand. 

“When I go to hug him goodbye, or go anywhere, he won’t let go, even if he’s hardly said two words to me all day.”

“Sounds like he still loves his father, Majesty.” Jean-Luc allowed himself a brief smile.

“Aye. And I’m grateful for it.”

“He’s a kind young man, well-reared and well-adjusted, sire. I shall speak with him. But don’t hold back, discuss your concerns with your son. Don’t let him stay in his shell.”

“Thank you, doctor.” The physician bowed and backed out of the room, leaving Jean-Luc in peace.

 

When the scene before her vanished, Raven’s reflection showed a face gone pale. “Shit,” she breathed.

“What is the matter, Mistress?”

“Show me where the boy is,” Raven ordered. Cerebra obeyed, concerned with the queen’s seeming fit of pique.

Cerebra took Raven on a visual journey out to the stable, where Remy stood currying the mare. The footmen and stable boys stood dutifully outside, allowing him some privacy, another indication that something was wrong. Remy was normally gregarious with every member of the king’s staff, but there he stood, communicating only with the wretched animal. Raven despised animals, only tolerating their smell when she and Victor made use of their quarters for their extracurricular hobby.

She watched Remy with interest, listening to his low, almost musical voice. The sweet tones of childhood were breaking, deepening to a more manly timbre, sounding much more like his father’s. He thoughtfully brushed the mare’s mane in long, easy strokes; she whickered at him and swished her tail, butting his hand with her nose. “She’s gonna hurt Papa,” Remy told her. “I heard her out here, and I know you did, too. He’ll never believe me, Thistle. I wasn’t even supposed to be up, and out in the dark.”

Raven’s heart pounded in her chest and she broke out into a cold sweat.

“She hates me, Thistle. She acts all sweet with Papa all the time, but he didn’t hear what she did. I don’t think she loves him. I know my Mama’s dead, Thistle, but she doesn’t want to be my mama. I don’t know what to do.” He leaned into the animal’s graceful neck, breathing into it. “She’s gonna hurt Papa. I don’t know how to stop it.”

A tear dripped onto his tunic, darkening the soft brown fabric. He sniffled and dabbed at his cheeks with his sleeve, the picture of bleak, forlorn despair.

“Victor did wrong, too,” Remy explained, as though the horse could understand him. “I heard him in here. I don’t even want to know what they were doing. I bet it was disgusting.”

Raven felt rage bubbling up in her throat, making her taste bile. How dare he. How dare that insolent little shit.

She tightened her hand into a fist, so tightly that her nails dug into her palm, drawing blood.

“Something needs to be done,” Raven decided aloud. “And quickly, too.”

If Cerebra could shiver, she would have.

Instead, she suggested, “So will it be the diamonds, Mistress?”

“Yes. I believe it will.”

*

 

Months passed like quicksilver. Sunlight glancing over the snow with painful brilliance heralded Remy’s thirteenth birthday. The palace stirred with activity for his celebration. Rugs were beaten and pillows were fluffed; every room was stocked with fresh beeswax candles and fine linens. Silver was polished and tables were dressed with colorful clothes and fine crystal goblets.

Raven fussed over the preparations inside the palace, but Jean-Luc pleaded with his son for some insight on what the boy wanted. So far, he wasn’t being forthcoming. Jean-Luc fumed. What was the purpose of planning a party that his son didn’t seem to want? Raven tsked at her husband while she went to bend the cook’s ear over the menu. Jean-Luc tracked Remy down in the library.

His son pored over a large book of art prints. Jean-Luc smiled when he saw him bent studiously over the desk. Remy reminded him so much of his dead wife that it hurt; he had so much of her piquant physical beauty and sensitivity, her humor and inner light. For just a moment, in the sunlight streaming in through the window, Jean-Luc saw Natalie seated at the desk, focused on her needlework. He blinked, and his son turned and offered him a hesitant smile.

“Good morning, Papa.”

“Remy…would you sit with me?” Remy reluctantly closed the book and rose from the desk. Jean-Luc saw him swallow and stare uncomfortably down at his own feet. “Please?”

Jean-Luc felt an odd sense of dread come over him at his son’s slow gait as his son met him on the sofa. “Won’t you tell me what’s the matter?”

“Please, Papa…I can’t.” That made Jean-Luc’s stomach twist itself into a knot.

“You can tell me anything,” he told him, taking Remy’s hand. Remy squeezed it gratefully, drawing on his father’s strength.

“I can’t tell you this, Papa,” Remy insisted, voice breaking. His chin quivered, and Jean-Luc longed to wipe that look of despair from his beautiful eyes. “I can’t. It would hurt you. You wouldn’t believe me.”

“You’re my son! I know you’d never lie to me! Don’t be ridiculous, Remy, I love you! I’m so worried about you!”

“I’m sorry,” Remy croaked. His throat felt tight and his vision blurred. “I don’t want you to hate me if I tell you.”

There was a loud, rapid knocking at the library door. Jean-Luc spun and roared, “WHAT? Who dares to interrupt my time with my son?” Wilfred’s voice greeted him, sounding worried and panicked.

“Sire! Please!” he beckoned. Jean-Luc made a sound of disgust under his breath and stood. Remy rose, too, but he turned to him and waggled his finger. 

“This isn’t finished. I still need to discuss this with you.”

“Yes, Papa.” Remy’s insides roiled and curdled with fear and self-loathing. He needed more time to come up with a reason that would keep his father from worrying, but Remy had no answers. Jean-Luc kissed his son’s temple before he went to the door. When he opened it, Wilfred looked frazzled and sounded out of breath.

“Sire…it’s her majesty, she’s taken ill!”

Jean-Luc ran from the library, robes fanning out behind him. Remy trembled, ignoring the hot tears streaking down his cheeks.

*

 

Upstairs, Raven lay moaning on the floor while Clodagh came with cool cloths and a vial of smelling salts.

“Her Highness is burning up!” Emily bellowed. “Get the physician!” Irene knelt on the floor, cradling Raven’s head in her lap.

“Don’t just stand around nattering like a flock of magpies,” Irene scolded. She snapped out instructions left and right at the staff in her effort to see to Raven’s comfort. Raven’s face was pale and clammy, and she writhed in discomfort on the floor.

“So…weak,” Raven gasped.

“Perhaps she’s laced too snug into her corset,” Clodagh whispered.

“Nonsense,” Irene scolded. “Hush your foolish mouth. That gown’s custom made; the queen has a wasp waist! Why, the very thought!” Raven made a mental note to punish her chambermaid when she was back up and around. She heard a hidden note of amusement in Irene’s voice, just a spark, despite the indignant gall written across her features.

The queen was bustled upstairs, dressed in her sleeping robes and tucked into her sumptuous bed. Jean-Luc hovered outside her door until she was settled, then waited for Irene to allow him in.

“She’s delicate, sire. Don’t wear her out,” she suggested politely. Jean-Luc knelt by the bed and took her hand, kissing it.

“What happened? What ails you, wife?”

“Oh…Jean-Luc…forgive me,” she bade him. “I never meant to make such a scene…”

“Don’t be a goose,” he tutted, allowing himself to stroke her hair. Raven pretended that the gesture didn’t annoy her. “You’re the queen. You’re allowed to make a little fuss when the mood strikes you, love.”

“You’re too good for me, lionheart,” she assured him, smiling weakly. “I was fine this morning. I got so caught up in making the plans for the party…”

“There’s no need. That’s why we have servants, Raven. Let’s put them to good use.”

“But, Jean-Luc, don’t be ridiculous! There’s still so much to oversee!”

“It will be done. You, on the other hand, need rest. Remy will understand if you can’t put your special touches on every aspect of his celebration, Raven. He’s mature for his age, don’t you think?” He said it proudly, gently kissing her knuckles. Raven managed a sickly little smile.

“Sometimes a bit too mature, milord.”

“Your cheeks still seem a bit pale…”

“I’ll be right as rain in the morning,” she assured him. The day wasn’t even half over; Jean-Luc realized in dismay that he was being dismissed from her chamber.

“The sun won’t rise without you.” Jean-Luc smoothed the covers, tugging them up beneath her chin. She tolerated another light kiss and smiled for him as he left.

“The sun won’t rise for him again, dearest. This, I swear.”

 

*

The regents began to arrive shortly after two in lushly equipped carriages. Servants were on hand to relieve them of heavy coats and snow-crusted boots as they reached the doors, and they automatically partook of hot, spiced ciders and mulled wine. Even the children, heirs to dukes, counts and earls, appeared in the main parlor ridiculously overdressed. Remy favored simple clothing, but N’Dare insisted that he wear the elegantly tailored, crisp white shirt and a richly embroidered tunic with the family’s crest. His leggings were made of rich brown leather, practical in that they kept him warm, and Remy already wore his hunting boots, brand new and gleaming. N’Dare pulled his long hair back neatly from his face, emphasizing his handsome profile. She was so proud of him, but she wondered why he seemed so subdued, even sad, on his special day. She hugged him with enthusiasm, and his answering embrace was surprisingly needy. She drew back and felt his forehead out of instinct.

“Are you feeling all right, Master Remy?”

“Nanny…” He was unsure of what to say.

“You don’t feel warm,” she told him soothingly. “Still, don’t catch a chill.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Of course you do.” N’Dare handed him a cup of cider from where they lingered in the parlor’s ante room. “You should greet your guests.”

“I wish I didn’t have to. I want to start the hunt.”

“Don’t say such things! They’re here to see you, on your special day!”

“Belladonna’s a brat. So’s Anna Marie. Nathan used to pull my hair when Papa wasn’t looking at Sabbath services.” Remy ticked off each child’s ills on his fingers until N’Dare tutted at him, giving his arm a light swat.

“They’re your guests. This is YOUR home. You’re the one in charge of your birthday. And one of these days, Master Remy, you’ll be in charge of everything else. But in the meantime, let me fix your shirt.” N’Dare fussed with his collar and sleeve cuff; Remy suffered it with a low sigh.

“Nanny…have you ever felt…like something bad was going to happen, but you didn’t know what? Just that it would happen soon?”

“Remy…” She was struck speechless.

“Have you?”

“You shouldn’t say such things. Those aren’t fit thoughts for someone your age.”

She wouldn’t admit to him that yes, she had those feelings, a portent of misfortunes to come. Every time she looked at Remy, she saw the daughter she lost. Oh, how it still hurt.

“I was just wondering, that’s all.”

“Master Remy-“

“Never mind. Sorry.” He wandered away from her and reluctantly joined his party. N’Dare watched him with worry. What had she done? Was he about to share something important with her?

*

 

The next hour was unbearable for him. Dozens of children of varying ages were underfoot, barely held in check by their respective governesses. Jean-Luc made Raven’s excuses for her likely tardy entrance to the festivities, pleading the ague. Remy suffered boring accounts of Nathan’s last hunt on his father’s reserve.

“Father let me watch them strip and clean the boar when they were done. They let me take the first stab. I gutted its belly,” he bragged smugly, cruelty radiating from his eyes. Remy winced.

“That’s dreadful,” Anna Marie decreed. She toyed with the edge of lace trimming her cuff and eyed Nathan with disgust. The heir to the Essex estate always got on her nerves, if only because his parents held a higher station, but he was such a boor with his vile stories and pranks. During a previous visit to the Darkholme manor, Nathan left a huge beetle in Anna’s custard, enjoying her shrieks when she lifted the lid. “Remy, you’d never do something that nasty.”

“How do you know he wouldn’t?” Belladonna accused. “He’s a wretched boy. They always do disgusting things.”

“I like the chase best,” Remy explained. “I like going with Papa. He said to treat your prey with respect.”

“Who cares about respect? It’s just meat, you ninny!” Remy felt an angry haze sweep over him.

“My father’s right. Take back what you said.”

“Why? My father’s taking me on the hunt, anyway, LeBeau. What’re you gonna do, tell your Mama I was mean to you?”

“Nathan, be quiet!” Belladonna snapped. But she’d looked amused up til then; Remy knew her jumping in on his behalf wasn’t sincere.

“That’s right. She’s dead.” The dark-haired boy had gone too far again. Remy’s fists curled at his sides, and he truly saw red. “And your other mother isn’t even down here-“

“Don’t,” Remy ordered sharply. His voice was hard and brittle, and his eyes glowed eerily, instantly unnerving and terrible to behold. “You don’t want to keep going,” he explained. “Not here. Not today.”

“I…I didn’t…” Nathan looked petrified, as though he were about to wet himself.

“I think you meant to leave me alone. Your papa wants to talk with you.” There was something charged simmering in Remy’s voice. Belladonna and Anna Marie no longer looked amused. The girls shrank back, nearly clinging to each other in caution.

“I’ve…I’ve got to go see my father,” Nathan explained weakly, as though he were in a daze. He nearly tripped over the ottoman on his way out of the parlor. Anna Marie tittered uneasily at his departure.

“I always knew he was a sissy when he isn’t bragging all day long,” Belladonna claimed.

“So you’re proud of yourself?” Remy snapped. She looked put out, and deep spots of color rose in her cheeks. Anna was turning equally raspberry. Remy’s eyes bore into them with little regard, as though they were beneath his notice. Anna Marie and Belladonna immediately felt insignificant and petty, and their emotions fed back to him, puzzling him.

What was he feeling? Remy broke out in a sweat and backed away from them.

“This is the worst party I’ve ever been to,” Belladonna announced, but her heart wasn’t in the barb.

“Good,” Remy replied absently. He left the noisy parlor in search of his father. Remy needed to get outside and feel the wind in his ears, needed to feel the saddle beneath him and the reins in his hands. He needed to feel in control of something that afternoon, and the hunt provided just the solution to the problem.

 

*

 

On his way to the adults’ drawing room, Remy was stopped by a low, familiar growl.

“What’s this? A man gets too old on his birthday to say hi to his old friend, Victor?” scoffed the huntsman. “Where are you hurrying off to, Master Remy?”

Remy stiffened. “I want to see my father.”

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you enjoying your party?” Remy shook his head. “Awwwww, c’mon now, lad, that’s not fitting for a prince to abandon his guests. Wouldn’t want to be impolite.”

“They aren’t my guests. I didn’t invite them. I just wanted to spend the day hunting with Papa.”

“Did you tell him that?” Victor inquired matter-of-factly. His smug look was gone.

“I tried.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘trying’ to tell someone something, young master. You either told him, or you didn’t.” Remy fumed with embarrassment. Victor was right, but that only made him resent him more. “Well?”

“Mother had other plans for my party,” Remy admitted. Victor chuckled, then came up and clapped him on the back.

“No doubt she did, lad. No doubt she did. Your father’s up to his ears in guests. Last I heard when I stepped out, he was discussing border patrols with the duke.”

“Nathan’s papa?”

“Aye.”

“Wonderful,” Remy muttered. “He’ll be there all day, then.”

“All night, too, more like,” Victor mused. He studied Remy carefully and felt the same odd buzz lately that the boy seemed to give off.

He was tall for his age, gaining inches on Victor and beginning to fill out. Long, coltish legs were rounding out with young, taut muscle, and his shoulder were broadening in promising ways, offering a glimpse of a stunning, virile man over the next handful of years. His eyes pierced Victor’s, probing them, and Victor felt strangely exposed, as though he had let something of himself slip.

He knew exactly what that was, and it pained him, what he’d been ordered to do. Victor tasted bitterness on his tongue. He forced down the urge to take Remy’s hand in any attempt to reassure him the way he had when he was a mite, knowing he wouldn’t tolerate it from him.

Damn Raven. Damn her to hell.

It was like having his own liver fed to him with a spoon when she ordered him to get rid of her stepson. Victor remembered the baffling disbelief at her words, how she had to be joking, but she’d stared up at him with those large, doelike, sapphire blue eyes, completely serious.

“The boy’s a liability. He knows. He knows about what you and I have done, Victor. He heard us, and he’ll tell your king. He’ll tell my husband,” she said carefully, rephrasing it to give him the full implication.

“What…would you have me do?” he grated out. “I couldn’t…my queen…surely you don’t mean for me to betray my liege so horribly? To do something so monstrous to… a child?”

“You’ve already betrayed him,” she snapped. “Grow up, Victor.”

Victor wallowed in frustration and heartache for several days.

In the meantime, Raven schemed. She pored over the library books and found recipes for potions, both a stronger sleeping tonic to spike Jean-Luc’s brandy, various poisons, and a tonic that allow herself to feign illness well enough to make the court physician pronounce her unwell. Using her own powers to emphasize her sorry state did the trick well enough, but creating a fever took effort and planning.

Irene was her confidant as she sat by the fire, knitting needles flying. “The boy will cost me everything.”

“Your own vices had something to do with it, sister.”

“Curse your disloyal tongue,” Raven hissed. “What do you see?”

“The threads are tangled, thanks to your own hands, sister. I see complications. Pursuit.” Irene paused as she tied off a knot of wool. “Blood.”

“Whose?”

“That’s uncertain.”

“What of Jean-Luc?”

“He’s weeping. But he’s wept before,” she said with irony. Then Irene froze. “Raven…there’s a box.”

“A gift?”

“No.” Irene clutched her chest and looked ill. “A token. A souvenir.”

“What’s in it?”

“It’s…a heart.”

Irene couldn’t see Raven’s sinister smile, but she could feel it.

*

 

Victor reached into the pocket of his heavy trousers. He, too, was dressed to hunt, despite the expectations the queen had of everyone’s appearance that afternoon. Victor’s long blond hair was clubbed back from his face, no less severe than Remy’s plait that reached just between his shoulder blades. N’Dare never had the heart to cut such beautiful hair, and the look suited him. Victor wore a thick, fleece-lined coat made from brown leather and a green jerkin. Moss green trousers and black boots would easily allow him to blend in with the forest when they started their hunt.

He pulled out a small box and handed it to Remy. “A gift from your mother,” he explained. “Take it, lad, don’t be shy.”

“She doesn’t have to give me a present,” Remy sulked.

“She’s your mother, Master Remy; of course she has a gift for her boy!” Victor huffed, offering laughter he didn’t feel.

“She’s not my mother,” Remy corrected him, his tone clipped. But he opened the box, missing Victor’s dissolving smile and the look of panic in his eyes. Remy pulled out a rich, red cashmere scarf. He unfolded it and draped it around his neck.

“It’s your favorite color,” Victor pointed out. “She got that right, eh?”

“I guess,” Remy muttered. “I want to see Papa.”

“Well…all you wanted to do with your father was go out, right? For a ride?”

“We’re all going on the hunt, if he’ll ever let me!” Remy complained sullenly. He began to pace the hall. “He thinks I’m a child! I’m not! SHE thinks so, too, but I know things! I know-“ Remy stopped, instantly going pale. Victor cleared his throat. He recovered quickly.

“Sure you do! Big, strong man!” Victor stepped forward and led Remy to the mirror. “There’s a good lad.” He tied the scarf carefully around his neck, smoothing it.

The temptation to offer the boy a kinder death was strong; strangling him in the wardrobe, if he could silence him long enough; breaking his neck; taking him abovestairs and hurling him from the window.

Any of these were preferable. The boy knew of his indiscretion, but he was innocent in every other way, in no way to blame for what Victor had to do. Victor despised the scarf, wanted to yank it from his body.

It was evidence. Proof that the deed was done. Victor felt hell yawning open for him.

“No one will notice if we sneak out for a while,” Victor promised cheerfully. Remy’s face brightened.

“Papa won’t know where I am, I need to tell him!” But Remy looked so tempted, barely able to contain himself at the idea of escaping his boring peers and the annoyingly fancy clothing.

“Don’t worry about troubling your father, young master. Tell you what,” Victor said cheerfully, the picture of reassurance, “we’ll do this with a signal, like real men. We’ll head out to the stable. I’ll get your mother’s attention. We’ll hit her window with a pebble to get her to come. She’ll see us headed for the stables. We’ll wave up to her, and she’ll see you wearing that handsome scarf of hers, eh? Your mother knows that a man sometimes has to get away from fancy trappings, right?” Remy beamed. “Aye?”

“Aye,” Remy decided.

“You can even blow her a little kiss. She’ll let your father know where you are, and even if he gets a little bothered by it, we’ll be back soon enough. No harm done!”

Remy hardly heard him. He was already hurrying out through the kitchen, headed for the door that led into the gardens. Victor’s smile faded, replaced by a dark, resolute scowl.

*

 

Once they were out in the stable, Victor beckoned to him. “Lad, here. Those clothes are too nice for a ride out into the snow.”

“Nanny made me wear them.”

“I’m makin’ ya wear these,” Victor informed him. He held out the plainer brown shirt and beat-up jerkin, the black homespun pants and battered spare boots. “These are more suitable. Keep on the scarf. There’s a good lad. And here’s my extra coat. It’s warm and comfy,” he promised. Remy looked uncertain at first. “Try ‘em on. Go on. Use the empty stall,” he told him.

“It’s cold in here.”

“It’ll warm up soon enough.” Remy still looked unsure.

“Why couldn’t I just change inside?”

“Did you feel like running into any of the grownups who would demand to know why a certain young prince isn’t inside, entertaining his friends in the parlor, sipping cider?”

“Oh. Right.” Remy’s smile was sheepish, making Victor’s guts twist. The more the lad trusted him, the more deeply it drove the knife into his heart. He broke out in a sweat and his heart pounded.

Please, Raven…don’t make me do this. He’s just a boy. Just a sweet lamb. Why, damn you, WHY! 

Remy happily took he proffered togs and headed into the empty stall. Victor turned his back and paced outside, lighting his pipe.

Remy shivered as he changed out of his finery, practically dancing in the icy snow as he drew off the leather trousers and boots. He stomped his feet and blew on his hands to warm himself. The mares whickered at him curiously from across the stable. Remy imitated their sputtering greetings with his lips, teasing them. It was his favorite game.

“What are you getting up to in there, young master?”

“Just playing,” Remy said, shrugging. Victor had wandered back into the stall and sucked in a breath.

The boy’s back was turned to him, but he was shirtless. There was so much promise in that young body, so much wiry strength and grace. Victor shook himself, loathing himself even more. He wouldn’t entertain such thoughts. Victor puffed on his pipe, giving himself something to do with his hands. He turned away once more, to preserve what he had left of his shame.

Victor looked odd to Remy when he came out of the stall. He allowed the giant huntsman to help him shrug into the heavy coat. It smelled like him, with a faint hint of Victor’s sweat and his ubiquitous pipe smoke when Remy buried his nose in the collar. Victor saddled Thistle for Remy, while he took Brutus, the temperamental black stallion. The horses whickered briefly as Victor and Remy coaxed them out of the stable and into the blinding snow. A light flurry stirred the air, and both men raised their scarves over their lips against the cold. Remy’s chest filled with brisk excitement and mischief. They’d done it! They were out!

He wondered about the sheathe that Victor had tied to his bridle. “Why did you bring that? Are we going to hunt?”

“Just in case,” Victor told him. “Never know what we might find, lad.” Remy nodded. They rode past the east side of the palace, away from the parlor wing. “Wait,” Victor reminded him. Victor dismounted from his horse and searched the ground, then found a handful of pebbles. He hurled one to the right window, just over the balcony. Remy barely heard the rapping sound over the wind. Victor waited, then threw another.

Raven stared into Cerebra’s surface, enjoying the look of impatience on her stepson’s face. Dutifully she rose from her vanity and approached the window. Victor waved. Remy copied him, even though he refused to smile.

“Ungrateful little shit,” Raven muttered. “Come now, little prince. Blow Mother a kiss.”

Raven waved down to them. As if on cue, Remy blew her a kiss. Her smile widened. Raven threw him one back, the picture of motherly love. Her lover then rode off into the forest with his burden. Raven returned to her vanity and waited.

 

*

They rode across Remy’s favorite path, even though the markers he usually recognized were obscured by fresh snow. The sky began to darken, and Remy heard clumps of snow hiss slightly as they slipped loose from bare, black branches. Thistle nearly tripped over a bare tree root. Victor cursed.

“Easy, now, lad, step lively! Your mount can only find her way as well as the hands that guide her!” he snapped inadvertently. Victor was jumpy and unsettled; Remy looked worried.

“I didn’t mean it. I was being careful.”

“You can never be too careful out in the woods, young master. Step lively,” Victor repeated. Remy’s cheeks looked rosy from the cold above the hem of his new scarf. Fresh flakes dotted his thick chestnut hair, catching on his lashes. He was the picture of fresh and youthful good health, a young man feeling his oats. The plain dark clothing was no richer than a peasant’s, making it difficult to distinguish him from any other boy his age within Jean-Luc’s realm. Raven planned it that way, to make him harder to recognize in the event that anyone unearthed his grave.

They scouted the tracks of a juvenile wolf cub; Victor could tell how old it was by its prints.

“Young one. Might be a little lame, looks like it was dragging the back foot.”

“We should leave it alone, then.” Remy looked doubtful. “There’s no sport in it. We need to respect it. That’s what Papa told me.”

“He’s…taught you well, lad,” Victor choked. His voice was muffled by his scarf and the wind that whipped their hair and snuck up beneath their coats, chilling them. “But let’s follow it. Might lead us to better game.” Remy was uncertain about it, but he obeyed, turning Thistle’s reins to follow Victor and Brutus.

They tracked the wolf at a distance to a clearing, and sure enough, it was a juvenile female, still too young to be in heat. “Beautiful,” Remy marveled. “It’d be a shame to hurt her.”

“They grow into menaces soon enough,” Victor growled. “Never trust beauty too much, lad. Take my advice. Aye, they use it against you, females do.” Remy watched the wolf, who had noticed them and hunkered down in the snow warily. She huffed and panted, licking her lips. Eerie yellow eyes bored into Remy, and he tasted her fear.

How?

It puzzled him, but Remy was sure of it; he felt the she-wolf’s emotions, felt her heart speed up in anticipation and fear. The cub growled low in her throat, ruff standing up around her neck. She yipped.

“She has a fine pelt,” Victor mused. “Sure you want to let this one go, lad?”

“Please,” Remy pleaded, “let’s leave her alone, Victor!”

“SCAT!” Victor called out. He imitated her growls, mimicking her too convincingly for Remy’s comfort. The wolf snarled a warning, but thought better of it. She took off into the endless snow. Remy felt the beast’s resentment at being sent out of her own nest.

Victor had dismounted and emptied something from his pockets onto the ground. “What is that?”

“Bait. She isn’t the only beastie in the woods that likes this spot, I’ll wager,” Victor called up to him. “She’ll come back, and so will bigger, meatier game.” Fear seized Remy.

“Victor…how long are we going to stay? I think we should go back. Papa’s going to be worried.”

“Bah!” Victor snorted. “Big men like you and I don’t worry about things like walking about in the dark. Every creature in this forest has more to fear from us, than we have of them.” He mounted Brutus once more, and they continued their ride.

They stopped at a thicket of pine trees. Victor offered Remy some sliced apples and raisins, since the lad had missed his supper. Remy ate a wedge of apple hungrily and a dribble of juice spurted down his chin. He caught it with his mittened hand and watched the giant light his pipe. Victor was watching him oddly.

“Happy birthday, young master.”

“Victor…can’t you just call me Remy?”

“It wouldn’t be fitting.”

“Why? You always call me lad.”

“That’s different. You are a lad, but your name is Prince Remy. Or Master Remy. It’s all a matter of your station in life, lad. You can call me Victor. There’s no ‘sir’ or ‘milord’ or ‘mister’ about it, understand? I’m a servant, and one of the people I serve is you. And your mother.”

“You care about serving her the most,” Remy said quietly.

Victor’s eyes narrowed and he tossed aside his pipe, letting the orange embers extinguish themselves and turn black in the pristine snow. He was up in a flash and he came at Remy, grasping the collar of his coat. Remy’s eyes widened with horror as Victor stood him up and bashed him back against the trunk of a towering pine. “What. Did. You. Say.”

“Victor…what are you doing? Please, let me go,” Remy stammered. Victor’s hands tightened around him, and his knuckles dug into Remy’s jaw. Victor’s pupils were dilated with madness, and his voice was paranoid and hard.

“What did you see? What did you hear, young master? Tell your friend Victor what you heard! TELL ME!”

“No! I can’t! You want to hurt my PAPA! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!”

A few meters away, the young she-wolf witnessed the blond giant snarling at the man-cub, threatening him. She growled again, displeased at this turn of events. She hunkered down and began to slink through the brush, following their scent, sucking it deep into her chest and memory.

“You’re making me do this,” Victor hissed. “Damn you! You should have just kept your mouth shut,” Victor accused. “Don’t you see. Don’t you see what I have to do. It’s my station. I serve my queen. She has all the power. And YOU, you have all the power, too, lad. That’s why she wants you out. That’s why THIS needs to be done, and why I HAVE to do this.”

“What do you have to do!” Remy cried. His eyes were blurring hotly and the cold air was biting his cheeks and chapping his lips, now that his scarf had fallen free. He regretted the apple, since he now felt sick. Remy saw Victor reach down and draw a small, mean-looking knife from the sheathe around his ankle.

“Meant to give this to you, lad. This…this was going to be my present for you. A man should have a real man’s knife, don’t you think? It would have served you well. And I…I wanted to serve you well, too.” Victor’s voice shook, and there was such damning contrition in his face, that craggy, rugged face that Remy never feared, even when Victor jokingly tried to scare him, again and again with his stories. Remy felt his hot breath flaring from his nostrils, steaming his lips as he spoke. Remy’s heart was skipping and pounding and he felt dizzy from the giant’s regard and the effect of his words. Victor was crushing the air from him; he wanted to tell him that, but he knew in his heart that it wouldn’t help.

“You want to be a man like your father, but you’re just a boy. You can’t do anything now, don’t you see? This is out of your hands.”

“No!” Remy sobbed, hating his voice that chose to break, revealing how terrified he was. His bladder threatened to release, and he wanted to vomit, but he couldn’t shame himself.

“If I don’t do this…she’ll have my head. She’ll tell your father that…I defiled her. That I committed treason against the kingdom, and that I committed rape. And if I tell your father the truth, it’s my death anyway. It almost doesn’t matter, lad. I won’t be able to live with myself, anyway…”

“Then run away!” Remy cried. “Why can’t you just leave?”

“Where would I go!” Victor shouted at him. Remy winced and closed his eyes against that voice and the rage boiling in those blue eyes. Remy felt the cold prick of something sharp probing the tender skin of his jaw. He pitched slightly, fighting the bile that rose up in his throat.

“Please…Victor, PLEASE!” Remy’s eyes snapped open just as Victor drew back his arm. The fading sunlight glanced off the silver blade, signaling the end of all Remy knew. Remy heard the caw of a blackbird in the trees and wished that he, too, were a bird and could fly away.

“PLEASE, VICTOR!”

Suddenly, Remy was seized by Victor’s flaring emotions that flooded into his mind in a mad jumble. Victor stared into those eyes, captivating as fire and smoke and felt the pull the lad had on him, probing him, pleading with him.

He had his hands wrapped around the throat of an innocent boy, who was staring up at him in confusion and betrayal, looking so hurt. Worse, the boy felt everything pent up inside him, all of his shame, all of the remembered lust and abandon he felt in Raven’s bed, all of the misgivings and the knowledge that he was indeed committing a grievous sin, worse than the ones already on his head.

He felt the boy’s disappointment that one of his friends and someone his father trusted, that Remy himself trusted, would do him such wrong. He felt Victor’s memories of his as a child, tickling his consciousness, of how it felt to hold Remy as a toddler and smell his sweet skin and hair, to tickle the plump belly and chase him around in the yard. Remy leaned back from him, craning his face back toward the tree in an effort to skirt around Victor’s grip on his neck. But he still stared at him warily, expecting the worse. He refused to scream, but he sniffled and gulped.

Remy projected his emotions, not realizing he was doing it. “She’ll hurt my papa if you do this.”

“Aye,” Victor grunted, voice strained. His eyes still held the giant in thrall, and he couldn’t break free. Or perhaps, he didn’t want to.

“I love Papa. I didn’t tell. I don’t want him to hate me.”

“He doesn’t, lad!” Victor finally cried. He shuddered and heaved deep, starved breaths, then sobbed. Victor hurled away the knife and went limp, supporting himself on the heels of his hands against the pine. He bowed his head over Remy and sobbed, then slowly enveloped the trembling boy.

They both sobbed. Remy no longer concerned himself with trying to free himself. He was afraid, cold and shivering, and Victor’s bulk offered shelter. He still felt his emotions, and he was still so flooded with shame and rage, but this time, it was with himself, that he had the gall to hurt someone innocent and trusting, someone that he adored from the moment of his birth.

“It’s all right, lad. I won’t. I won’t. Not a hair on your head, I won’t.” Victor’s low babble did little to comfort Remy, but he clung to him, having nothing else to reassure him.

“I. Want. My. Papa.” Remy chanted it like a litany into his coat, showing Victor with clarity just how young he truly was, yet. His sniffles were getting louder.

“It’s getting dark,” Victor said dully. “And you’re cold. Much too cold.” He led Remy back to his horse. “You were right, lad.”

“What?”

“I could leave. It’s the coward’s way out, but…I have nothing else to lose. I don’t deserve my station, in your father’s house.” He was completely chastened, and the giant looked smaller to Remy, no longer brash and proud, all of his puckish humor gone. “Get back up. Thistle will lead you home. I’ll be along in a moment, Remy.”

“Victor-“

“GO!” he shouted, and Remy recoiled at the return of his temper. He fumbled with the reins and gave Thistle’s sides a kick, and the horse broke into an unsteady canter toward the palace.

Victor watched him leave, and he let the snow assault him, dripping from his hair and chilling his neck. He spied the boy’s fine scarf on the ground where he’d whipped it free to access his vulnerable throat.

He picked it up and coiled it around his hand. “It’s the coward’s way out, lad.”

He didn’t hear the booted feet rush up behind him, and Victor grunted as a slender black club clouted the back of his head. He went down with a low thud; the snow crunched under his cheek, stained by the red trickle of blood.

“Get the boy,” a harsh voice ordered. “Take that, too. Looks like it’s worth something.”

*

Victor woke in a haze of pain. Above him, the sky had already gone dark. His head throbbed and his cheek was numb from lying in the snow. He rolled up groggily, rubbing his eyes to clear them. What the hell?

Brutus whickered at him, dancing skittishly on his front feet. Thistle and Remy were gone. He couldn’t see the mare’s tracks or the boy’s footprints; they were covered by fresh snow. Victor’s heart hammered and he began to hyperventilate.

The scarf was gone. “Shit,” Victor spat. He gazed down and saw blood in the snow, then realized it was his own.

Bandits. Poachers. That was the only possibility that came to him. That was one of the concerns Essex brought up at his last visit with Jean-Luc, a nuisance that affected both of their estates. 

“REMY!” Victor choked. “REMY!” he called out, running frantically through the brush. Brutus whinnied after him. “REMY! REMYYYY!”

Behind him, a wolf growled threateningly, warning him away from the fresh meat he’d scattered before. Victor spied the gleam of his discarded knife. He made a dash for it, just as the wolf pounced. He knew how this had to play out. This wasn’t the shy she-wolf Remy had spotted; this one was fair game, something that comforted Victor as he wrested the beast to the ground and drove his blade into his heart.

Victor didn’t bother stripping the pelt. He dragged the beast’s carcass up onto Brutus’s saddle and mounted him, then rode deep into the woods. Victor dumped it into a fast-flowing river. No one would know where the beast came from when it reached its final stop; and no one would ponder the death of a predator.

The only thing that would prove puzzling was that its heart was missing.


	4. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy isn’t out of danger yet. He finds unlikely protectors, or rather, they find him. Read on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: You no doubt found a little Easter egg in the last chapter about another familiar face. Or, maybe I just gave all of you a pounding headache from beating you about with metaphors and clunky foreshadowing, but what the heck.

Remy woke up with a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. His throat was sore and his mouth chafed from the sensation of a gag wedged between his lips. He stared groggily around him and realized the ground was moving beneath him. He was inside a covered wagon, and his hands and feet were bound.

He whimpered, fear clutching his heart. No! He saw sunlight streaming in through gaps in the wagon’s shabby tarp, and he was laying up against bundles and baggage, being treated like cargo himself. Remy heard guttural, harsh voices above him, perhaps behind him.

“Bet the brat’s wakin’ up by now.”

“Best t’give ‘im another dose.”

“Nah. Shaw likes ‘em t’have a little life when he parades ‘em about. This one’s feisty.” They barked laughter that chilled him, once Remy realized they were talking about him. The horses’ hooves were no longer traveling over soft snow; Remy heard the clops of cobblestones and the sounds of traffic. Were they in town?

Remy had made few visits into the village with his father, who didn’t want to tempt mischief from anyone who would attack him or his son, if his subjects found fault with his rule. Jean-Luc traveled with a troop of knights and bodyguards; Raven seldom went into town at all aside from her shopping excursions. Much she cared if Jean-Luc took Remy with her, as long as he got the little bastard out of her hair.

Remy felt them turn down the road, into what sounded like an alley. He heard the ominous drip of water sluicing down from eaves and gutters, and the sound of the wheels changed; the movement of the wagon grew smoother once they were rolling over packed dirt. Remy heard more voices swarming around them. There was a flurry of activity, of people shuffling in and out of doorways and unloading boxes.

“Let’s get ‘im out,” one of his captors ordered impatiently. “I need a pint.”

“You always need a pint!”

“Gleanin’ the kings’ woods is thirsty work. I’ve had a full day,” the man argued. Remy heard him hock disgustingly, launching a wad of tobacco pulp into the street. He winced, sickened.

All he could remember was something closing over his mouth and nose and being told to suck it in, and to come along like a good lad. The hands on him were harsh, hurting him more than Victor’s, and this time, Remy was truly petrified. They didn’t see his eyes or their unearthly glow before he went down. Remy descended into darkness, and woke to madness.

He jerked, startled, as the tarp was jerked away. Remy realized in horror that one of the bundles he lay next to was another child. It was a young boy, who had been sleeping peacefully, or perhaps lying in a drugged stupor like Remy had. The boy looked no older than ten. His blue eyes widened in confusion, then horror once he got a good look at Remy and the gag over his mouth.

The men were scurvy looking and had jagged, blackened teeth, grinning in satisfaction at the trussed up young boys. “Tasty lil’ morsels, eh, Jase?”

“Get ‘em out already, Donal’,” barked the one with the weasly looking mustache and greasy dark hair sticking out from a woolen cap. He wore a dirty gray duster and rough brown mitts. He reached in and dragged Remy up to his knees by his bound wrists. “You’re big enough to walk. Get the fuck up!” he snapped. Remy recoiled at his foul breath and the scent of sour, old whisky that clung to the man. When the man jerked him close, he saw the ugly pock marks in his skin and the circles beneath his eyes. This one was Jase, short for Jason Wingarde, one of the village’s most thriving poachers.

Remy was dragged into the back door of the alehouse, made to climb the steep, rickety stairs. He heard the pitiful whimpers of the little blond boy that shared the wagon with him and feared for him more than himself. Why did they bring them here? Did Victor let them take him?

No. It made no sense. Victor sent him off alone, and he was headed back toward the palace. Why tell him to head home? Why didn’t he just hand him off to these men himself? Remy puzzled it out while he was lead up to a small room at the end of the corridor. He noticed with dismay that there was no window overlooking the street, or even the alley. Remy was truly at their mercy.

These men lacked it.

“Here’s yer lil’ playmate, brat,” said Donald Pierce, the homely, skinny blond with a prominent, bulbous nose and a wicked red scar over his left eye that cut all the way up into his hairline. He shoved the younger boy into the room with Remy, not caring how he landed. The boy collapsed against Remy and let out a mournful wail, partially stifled by his gag. “Shut UP!” he bellowed.

“Ease up on the lil’ blighters,” Jase told him, chuckling. “Bound t’wet his pants. Shaw wouldn’t like that.”

“Folks he caters to will likely make these mites do a lot worse. Scared shitless, ain’t they?”

“Aye. Don’t worry, boys, you’ll learn t’sing fer yer supper, soon enough!” They laughed raucously and slammed the door, and Remy heard the click of a lock. Despair swept over him, and he longed for his father and beloved nanny. He wondered if Victor knew where he was, or if the huntsman could even do anything to help Remy out of this predicament.

The little blond beside him sobbed. His tears softened Remy and appealed to him, distracting himself from his own plight, since it was shared. This child was smaller and weaker, and therefore needed his reassurance, for all the good it would do. Remy worried the gag, trying to spit it out. The boy reached up with his own bound hands; his were bound in front of him, which made little sense to Remy, even at his own young age. They must not have considered the smaller fellow a threat. The boy hunkered close and fiddled with the gag, tugging on it. Remy twisted his face, working his mouth loose, wanting to cheer when his teeth were no longer forced open by the rag.

“…nnnngh…ouch,” he spat. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome,” the boy sniffled. “I’m Douglas.”

“Remy,” he offered. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too. I want my mama.”

“Well, I want my papa, too.”

“Can…can you get us out of here?” Douglas said hopefully.

“I don’t know. We have to try. Except…I don’t know where we’ll even go if I do.”

“Get us out! You have to,” Douglas insisted mournfully.

“Shhhhhhhhh…take it easy. Sit with me. You’re cold, right?” They huddled closely together, and Remy realized they’d taken Victor’s spare coat. The room was drafty and poorly lit. It wasn’t furnished except for a hard little cot and rickety wooden chair. The walls showed sign of termite damage, and Remy swore he saw rat feces littering a nearby throw rug.

“It smells bad.”

“You’re right.”

“I want my dog,” Douglas complained.

“Me too. My papa has hunting hounds. I like showing them tricks.”

“You know tricks?” Remy welcomed the distraction to his own fear.

“They do,” he corrected him, warming to the topic. “They fetch, and if you give them the scent of something, they can find it.”

“Hey…what’s the matter with your eyes? They look funny.”

“They’re just different. I don’t know why.” Remy looked away from Douglas briefly, not wanting him to study them too closely. Remy knew that his being a prince made some people look more generously upon his odd gift; even though he was handsome, his eyes weren’t common, or even natural. Raven never tested this theory for herself, of whether her subjects would still look favorably upon her in her true, blue state just because of wealth and status, or if they would curse and revile her.

Remy was about to find out firsthand how his appearance would be treated without the aid of his crown. Without his royal garments, Remy was a commoner. He wore no family crest or jewelry; he wasn’t even dressed in his realm’s colors. The lock on the door squeaked in protest as a key was jiggled in it, and someone kicked it open again for the sheer pleasure of startling the frightened boys.

“Oy! That one’s worked himself loose!”

“Lil’ troublemaker,” Jase told Donald, elbowing him. “Gonna hafta watch this one.”

“He’s got spunk. Shaw’ll get a kick out of it, he will.”

“Take ‘em down.”

Remy was forced to his feet. He struggled against their grip this time, no longer addled by the sedatives, and he was cuffed across the ear for his trouble. “Unless ya wanna taste me fist, ya lil’ bastard, ya won’t try anything else!”

“We’ll feed this lil’ snot to the bloody dogs, we will!” They jerked Douglas by his ear, making him wail. Tears ran down his plump, reddened cheeks. Both boys were dragged back downstairs and into another small room. This one appeared to be an office, and it was full of tobacco reek and piled with crates.

A hard-looking, massively built man with dark hair and narrow, shrewd blue eyes looked the boys over as they were dragged inside. “What’ve ya got, lads?”

“They look promising, guv,” Jase told him. The man rose from his seat and circled his desk, tipping Douglas’ chin up.

“Not bad. Might be able to sell him to the work house on Salem Street.”

“Bloody waste,” Jase sneered. “Sweet lil’ thing. Someone might want a fresh, pretty boy. Look at his curls. Sweet as a lil’ girl, Shaw.”

“Bastards yer showin’ ‘em to won’t know the difference,” Donald guffawed.

“Hush!” Shaw bade him. “Hold your tongue, Pierce, or I’ll be forced to cut it out.” Donald stiffened, then tucked a nip of tobacco into his cheek. He stared sullenly into the corner while Jase described their prospects.

“This one looks pretty ripe. He could work the rooms here, or at the Painted Lady. Look ‘im over. Look at that fuckin’ hair. A redhead, this one is.” Shaw made a sound of appreciation, then peered more closely at him.

“What’s this?” he murmured, tipping Remy’s chin up. His dark, heavy brows rose as he regarded Remy’s eyes, finally realizing what was wrong with this boy, who was too calm, too silent.

“You’ve brought a demon into my place!” Shaw hissed, backing away.

“What the hell’re ya goin’ on about, Shaw!” Donald accused.

“LOOK AT HIM! LOOK AT HIS DAMNED EYES!”

“Shit,” Jase murmured. He pointed. Donald’s mouth fell open.

“Oy!”

“Please,” Remy bade them, “let us go?”

They answered him by cuffing him neatly on the back of the head. Remy blacked out.

*

 

The three traffickers pondered their options once the boys were bound and tossed upstairs once more.

“Madelyne likes unusual things. Her customers prefer the exotic.”

“Not much exotic about her girls, Don. Except their nasty diseases,” Jase joked, but he was still unsettled by Remy’s eyes. They’d haunt him in his sleep.

“This one’s unique,” Shaw considered as he sipped his ale. “He was a pretty thing. Demon’s eyes or not, we’d get top dollar for him. He’s young. Fresh.”

“Doesn’t look a day over fifteen.”

“He’s younger’n that, Jase!”

“Go up and see,” Jason challenged his friend. Donald scoffed, then rubbed his crotch.

“Oh, I’ll check ‘im, all right!”

“No.” Shaw got up and calmly hovered over Pierce. “Lay one hand on that boy,” he promised as he clutched his collar, “and you’ll answer to me.” He lifted him from his chair and flung him against the opposite wall like a bag of garbage. “He’s merchandise, now. I only sell new goods. You know that by now.”

“What about our take?”

“Once I sell him. Not before.” Jase knew the game well. Donald would have nodded his agreement, but his head collapsed against the floor.

*

“RAHNE!”

*RAHNE! RAHNE MARIAH SINCLAIR! ANSWER US!*

“RAHNEY! COME ON, GIRL!”

They screamed themselves hoarse as they searched the thicket. The girl’s scent was diminished by the snow and the length of time she’d been gone.

“I hate this,” Henry growled.

“Me, too,” Warren agreed. “What happens if we don’t find her?”

“Nay, lad. What you mean is, what happens to whomever ran off with her when we find THEM? I won’t suffer the likes of anyone who would kidnap a child,” he snapped.

Warren said nothing. He ruffled his feathers briefly beneath his long coat to stay warm; he had difficulty staying warm due to his hollow bones and scarce body fat, and standing in the snow wasn’t helping matters any.

*RAHNE! ANSWER US! COME HOME!*

Betsy hurried down the path, fingertips pressed against her temples as she mustered her psychic energy. She searched for Rahne’s psychic footprints, while Henry tracked her physical ones. Her brows were beetled with worry, and Warren thought he heard her sob moments before.

She continued to cry out through the forest with her thoughts, attempting to reach the barely pubescent girl.

“I told her I wanted to go with her!” Dani complained, not for the first time that morning.

“You had your own chores, and the two of you always stay out too long.”

“She stayed out too long, anyway, and now we don’t know where she is!” Dani railed, dark eyes blazing with anger. “I can’t feel her! I know something’s happened to her!”

“Hush, child!” Henry scolded. “You can’t always rely solely on the bond you share.”

“She’s my soul sister!” Danielle insisted indignantly. “Why can’t I rely on it? It’s never led me wrong before, and I always know when she needs me!”

“We all know that now, gal,” Sam huffed. “She ain’t been back yet. Rahney knows better than t’stay out all night.” He wasn’t intimidated by the hand she raised to clout him; Henry grabbed her wrist and made her drop the matter.

“Someone left meat behind,” Dani pointed out. “And someone fought with her for it.”

“Not necessarily,” Henry corrected her. “Look. Those tracks are hers. They’re smaller. There were a couple of horses.”

“But no one attacked them,” Dani argued. “We would have found them by now, hurt. Or something big enough to hurt a horse would have killed it by now.”

“That’s using your head,” Henry encouraged, tugging on one of the girl’s long black plaits.

“There were more than two humans here. I can still feel their psychic imprint,” Betty informed Henry.

“How many?”

“About a half dozen. Aside from Rahne, there were two more youngsters.”

“That’s odd.”

“This leaves a bad taste in my mouth, Hank.”

“I assure you, my dear, so do I, and it has nothing at all to do with this morning’s biscuits, well intended but a bit well done.” Henry had a bad habit of joking when things took a turn for the worst. Betsy swatted his rump and continued her scan.

“The worst part of it is, I can’t tell whose blood was whose.”

“None of it’s Rahne’s,” Henry reassured her. “The nose knows. Just the second wolf, poor wretch.” He sniffed along the ground and ran his fingers over the dried ichor staining a tall pine. “Handprints. Someone killed the beast, then wiped their hands here, or just held onto the tree for support.”

“Must’ve been some fight.”

“The youngster I can smell, now that I’m close enough.”

“Rahne?”

“No. A boy. Older than Rahne, perhaps. This blood’s not his, thank heavens.”

“Problem is, where is he?” Warren demanded. “Hank, let me up. I can look for them easier when I’m off the ground!”

“We can’t risk it,” Henry reminded him impatiently. “Whoever found Rahne and took her could just as easily set you in their sights if you draw too much attention to yourself, lad.”

“It’s not fair,” he complained, marring his beautiful face with his scowl.

“Don’t stick your lip out at me, young man. No back talk.” Henry’s fur along his ruff bristled and he bared his fangs at the oldest of his charges.

“HENRY!” Danielle’s eyes went wide. She grabbed his sleeve and shook him. “I feel her! She’s okay!” Then her enthusiasm waned. “She’s scared, Henry! We have to go get her!”

“What do you see?”

“She’s hiding,” Dani informed him.

“Show me,” Betsy interrupted, going to her and gently taking Dani’s shoulders. She bade her to close her eyes and relax. Betsy leaned her forehead against Dani’s and closed her eyes as well, letting her mind “see” what Rahne saw, using Dani’s mind as her conduit.

She gently crept through her psyche, passing by images of thoughts that weren’t her affair, for the moment, respecting her privacy. She looked only for sign of Rahne and followed the girl’s aura. The two young girls were linked from the moment that they met, the bond forged between them stronger than it could have even been had they been born from the same womb. Dani shared a unique kinship with animals, literally able to hear their thoughts and feel what they felt. The bond extended to Rahne while she was in her lupine state. Henry took in the young metamorph when she was just a mite, when her parents were about to leave her for dead. What Henry thought was a young wolf cub was actually a one-year-old girl, howling and wailing for her mother. He made soothing, low growls in his throat, crept up to her calmly and collected her against his chest, tucking her inside his coat.

All of them were foundlings, abandoned or cast out of their homes, or rescued from traffickers who would exploit them for ill gains. Henry freed Warren from a cult who thought his wings marked him as an angel, but who kept him bound, captive above an obscene altar. He was starving, filthy and emaciated when Henry found him. He still didn’t trust many adults or anyone claiming that they were there to help him. Betsy was an accused witch from the village she escaped one night, when the thoughts that kept invading her consciousness turned out to belong to the people around her. She started having fits of hysteria when she couldn’t shut them out.

Henry’s mind was a calm, tranquil place. His thoughts were organized and he was kind and non-threatening despite his appearance. Betsy still smiled when she thought back to the moment they met. She screamed at his fanged smile and blue fur, and he jumped back, shouting in surprise, dropping the bushel of apples he’d picked.

Danielle’s plight was similar to Betsy’s. Her second gift was to divine the greatest fear or desire of those around her. Sometimes she pulled the thoughts from their minds when her control of her own emotions weakened, and the images displayed themselves for all to see, often to the individual’s shame or embarrassment. She, too, had been driven out; Betsy discovered her cowering in a cave, petrified and babbling that she couldn’t shut out the pictures in her head, that they wouldn’t stop. She was barely old enough to begin losing her baby teeth. When Betsy took her back to the cottage, she soothed her to sleep and laid her in the same cot with Rahne that night. They realized that the girls had a bond when Dani began giving them reports of Rahne’s antics whenever they were separated.

They never slept in separate beds as they grew, even when Henry offered them two new ones. It began to dawn on him and Betsy that their relationship perhaps ran much deeper than sisterhood. But they were young yet, and they had all the time in the world to work things out and make up their minds.

Sam lost his father at an early age, and he was the only surviving child in his home when robbers broke in and killed his mother and six siblings. He huddled out in the barn, hidden in the hay loft; Betsy discovered his thoughts when Henry brought her to investigate word of a deserted cottage. Henry took Bobby away from his abusive foster home when he found him beaten and half-naked by the river, trying to rinse and dress his own wound. Even though it was blistering cold, he didn’t shiver one bit.

Henry worried over the fate of this child, too, if they didn’t find him, or worse, find Rahne in time, either.

Betsy felt Rahne’s psyche, sharing the same substance as Dani’s, and suddenly, she saw the world through the younger were-girl’s eyes. From what she could tell, Rahne was in an alley, and the ground was covered with mud and snow. Betsy shivered; she could tell that Rahne was freezing, wherever she was. “Damn it,” she muttered aloud. “Why didn’t she wear her coat?”

“Because of her fur,” Sam guessed, shrugging. “You know Rahney.”

“She’s getting such a spanking,” Betsy grumbled. She continued to scan Rahne’s thoughts. “She saw the boy and the man who were here. The man threatened her.”

“Hunter?”

“Maybe. Odd…he didn’t seem like he was hunting Rahne; not really. Just taunting her.”

“Not very sporting,” Henry muttered.

“She was worried about the boy. He was afraid. They were shouting at each other,” Betsy said. “The man pulled out a knife.” Henry growled. “But he didn’t cut him. You were right, Henry, that wasn’t his blood.”

“He better be thankful that it wasn’t, or I’d flay his hide.”

“She followed them.”

“The man and the boy?”

“No. The men in the wagon. They took the boy.”

“There aren’t any wagon tracks here.”

“They went on foot first. Then out to the road, a mile from here. Poachers, I’m guessing.”

“So Rahne followed them?” Warren asked incredulously.

“She was worried about him,” Henry reasoned. “Foolish, stubborn little girl!”

“Find her, first. Then, we give her what-for,” Sam promised grimly.

“She’s in town,” Betsy told them. “Hiding. Close to what looks like an alehouse.”

*

 

Rahne snuffled and sneezed from where she hid, trying to burrow further into the cart of goods. She wrapped herself in a large, empty flour sack to keep warm.

The two nasty smelling men took the boy into the seedy, two-story building, along with another child who looked her age. The poor wee bairn was frightened, and she growled under her breath that adults would treat him so poorly.

She knew she risked discovery and persecution in her transitional form, but she needed to reach out to Dani, and this was the only way of contacting her over such distance. Her skin was covered with a light coat of russet fur, not as substantial as it was in her full lupine state. The day was bitter cold and more snow began to fall, hardening slushy puddles and fortifying mean-looking icicles hanging over the nearby doorway.

Rahne was petite for her age and slight of build. At ten, she was wily and curious, and her inquisitiveness frequently got her into trouble. She had a grown wolf’s natural inclination to hunt, but Henry took great pains to enforce that she was a girl first, and that she needed to recognize the limitations and duties of that life first, including that her gift didn’t make her immune to harm. Rahne had a wild streak and enjoyed changing into a cub, loved running down prey like small rabbits, squirrels and voles, and enjoyed rolling in the dirt and dried leaves. Betsy recognized that it was hopeless trying to keep her clean and well-groomed.

She had brutally short hair, coppery red, and it had an odd, rough texture, not unlike fur. In her human form, her eyes were a soft, deep green that resembled emeralds. She was adorable, or would have been, in Betsy’s mind, if she didn’t come home from her jaunts looking like a ragamuffin.

Rahne saw the two men leaving the alehouse what seemed like hours later. One of them was holding a cloth to his head while the other one laughed, a nasty, brutish sound that made Rahne shiver.

*

 

He was cold.

That was his only thought as he woke again in the dark. He heard sniffling.

“H-hey…you awake?”

“Nnnnn…” He moaned pitifully and his head throbbed. He couldn’t think straight or remember how he ended up lying on the floor, without so much as a blanket. His wrists chafed.

“Wake up! Please, before they come back!”

“Who…who’s gonna come back?” he slurred.

“Don’t you remember? The two men who took us in the wagon!”

“Can’t…just…give me a minute,” he complained. “Head hurts…”

“They hit you,” the little boy whimpered as he peered down into his face. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and teary.

“Who…who are you?”

“What do you mean? I’m Douglas.”

“Don’t…know any Douglas.”

“You know me!”

“Sorry…” Remy rolled to a sitting position. Douglas looked horrified. The older boy didn’t remember him. Surely it wasn’t possible. Remy crawled toward the east-facing wall, toward something shiny. There was a long, cracked mirror standing in the corner of the room. He pulled himself close enough to it to look himself over, letting his breath fog the glass.

Red-on-black eyes stared back at him, widening in surprise. Were those his eyes?

“Why do they look like that?” he murmured.

“Your eyes? They just do,” Douglas explained. “I don’t think they’re scary,” he offered, trying to make him feel better. “Those men did. That’s why they hit you.”

“Someone hit me?” He was baffled. What had he done to deserve being beaten? Was he being punished, being sent away to this dark, cold little space? Why would they punish the little boy, too? He didn’t look like he could harm a fly. He was currently weeping pitifully and rocking himself.

They quieted at the sound of footsteps in the corridor and new voices, one that was female. “This better be worth my while. I’m losing money out here, when I could be handling customers in my parlor.”

“Have a care, now, Madelyne. Have I ever led you wrong?” Shaw unlocked the door and let the tall, slender, red-haired woman inside first. She wore black from head to toe, from her flouncy hat trimmed in ostrich feathers to her ten-button kid boots. Her skin was creamy and pale, creating a sharp contrast. What was otherwise a beautiful face only looked cruel. She appraised both boys with a sigh.

“Where did you find these two, a snake pit? Ugh…filthy.”

“They’ll clean up nicely enough,” Shaw promised. Madelyne tsked. Her high-heeled boots clumped across the floor planks as she crossed the room, approaching Douglas first. He didn’t back away, wondering if she would be any gentler with him because she was female. But her green eyes were hard and cold. She bent down and lifted his chin up, turning his face this way and that.

“Decent,” she pronounced. “Some of my clients like the cherubic-looking ones like this. They’re a dime a dozen, but they make me money. I can even put a dress on him. At his age, it won’t matter.”

“Sure will when they lift his skirt,” Jase guffawed.

“All they’ll do is bend him over,” Donald agreed.

“Want…m-my mama,” Douglas whimpered. Madelyne sharply released his cheek, then slapped it briskly.

“None of that!” she cried. “I won’t have sniveling! Not in my house, wretch!”

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” Remy cried out. His eyes blazed with anger on Douglas’ behalf.

“So you’ll consider him?” Shaw said hopefully, ignoring Remy’s words.

“Aye. But he’ll need breaking in, and quickly. Now what about you?” Remy reared back in disgust.

“Get away from me!” he hissed.

“Don’t you spit at me, you little shit!” Madelyne warned him. She stomped over to him and jerked him up by the arm. Remy was surprised at her strength. The hardness in her face reminded him of someone, another woman in his life, he wagered, who was supposed to be loving, but who was incapable of it.

“Let me go! I’ll tell my papa!” Remy croaked.

“And who’s that, then? Don’t make me laugh! You have no father. None of the trash that Shaw shows me ever has. You’re no different. You’re just here because no one wanted you. Shabby little baggage,” she sneered. She reached around and grasped his long, frayed plait, then slapped his cheek with it. “You’re pretty enough, I’ll give you that, but-“ Madelyne paused, then sucked in a breath.

Remy’s red irises burned with inner fire, brilliant as jewels. She saw her own fascinated, almost horrified reflection in their depths.

“Oh, my,” she breathed. “You, now…you ARE special, child. Wild, pretty thing,” she mused. She stroked his cheek, and Remy shrank back from her touch, which burned. “I can offer you a place in my house. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she purred.

“Ain’t like he’s got a choice,” Donald jeered.

“QUIET!” she snapped, spinning on him. His impertinence drove hectic color into her cheeks, and her green eyes blazed. Jase and Donald felt various body parts shrivel in response.

Madelyne straightened and dusted off her coat. “I’ll take them. Pack them up into my carriage.”

“Excellent choice.”

“Don’t pander to me, Shaw.” Two of her valets passed her going through the doorway, skirting around her to collect the boys. They struggled and were struck for their troubles and then marched back downstairs. Remy and Douglas shivered at the sudden shock of cold as they were dragged through the snow to a carriage in the alley. 

“NO! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” Remy cried, unwilling to go easily. Douglas added his shrill cries and tried to tug himself free, but the passerby from the street didn’t pay attention. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen skirmishes between people coming and going from the alehouse, and Shaw wasn’t a reputable man.

Rahne saw the boy she recognized from the tree, and he was dirty, looked as cold as she did. This time, he had another little boy with him, and she could tell he’d been crying again. She growled and tensed. She had to help them.

In a twinkling, she transformed into a wolf. She bound across the cobblestones, abandoning the flour sack she’d used as a makeshift shawl. Her own clothing always vanished when she changed, only to reappear whenever she returned to human form. Rahne growled and snarled as she skittered through the snow. The townsfolk paid her more attention than they had the boys in the alley, this time terrified of the wild wolf in their midst.

“WOLF! WILD BEAST!”

“RUN!”

Several people scrambled out of her way, to her satisfaction, but Rahne knew her real work was still ahead of her. She bound up to the two men attempting to force them into the carriage and snapped her jaws around the blond one’s wrist.

“GET OFF! BLOODY GET OFF, BITCH!”

He shook himself, trying to snap her off of him with broad whips of his arm. She wasn’t a particularly large wolf, possibly a juvenile. Where the devil had she come from? This wasn’t someone’s pet!

Remy realized that the wolf somehow looked familiar. He’d seen her russet fur before, recognized her markings and green-yellow eyes. Donald succeeded in shaking himself free, only to have the wolf bound back up and claw at his face. She managed to catch his cheek between her teeth, making him roar in pain.

Jase scurried back, still holding on to Douglas, pushing the boy out in front of himself as a shield. Rahne saw this and leapt at him instead, jumping right over the boy’s head to latch her teeth around Jase’s throat. She knocked them both down, but Douglas rolled aside, sobbing and whimpering in the slushy snow that was soaking through his pants. Rahne worried his throat savagely, black-rimmed lips frothing with saliva and the first hint of the man’s foul blood. She barked and snarled, clawing at him, and Shaw shielded Madelyne from a likely attack.

“Where the hell did that thing come from?”

“Who the hell cares? Kill it!” Madelyne scolded. He found one of the clubs Jase kept in their rickety wagon and brandished it, raising it up.

Rahne felt a sharp blow that forced her to let go of the kidnapper, making her stagger on her paws. She let out a small whimper and collapsed on the hard-packed, dirty snow.

“Damn,” Shaw cursed as he watched the creature’s body warp and change.

“Well, well,” Madelyne purred with a smile, “what have we here?”

*

 

“NO! RAHNEY!”

“Hank, they’ve taken her!” Betsy cried. She held fast to Dani, who was screaming hysterically, trying to break free and run down the path.

“Hank, let me fly! Please!” Warren cried. “I can still see their tracks from the sky! My eyes are good enough, I know I can do it!” 

“Aye,” he nodded. “Go. Betsy will stay with you, in here.” He tapped Warren’s temple. “Stay quick.”

“I will.” Warren shed the bulky coat and shook out his large, brilliant white wings, pure and downy as an eagle’s. He crouched, leapt and launched himself into the sky, flapping the glorious appendages in sweeping arcs. His makeshift family suddenly resembled ants below him as he followed the tracks that wouldn’t have been discernible to a common man’s eyes.

“Let’s go,” Henry barked. 

“Let me fly, too, Hank!” Sam demanded.

“Take me!” Dani cried.

“Fine! GO!” Sam gathered Dani up against him, raised his hand, and streaked off into the sky, leaving a trail of fire and smoke after him that appeared to devour his lanky lower body. Like Warren, Sam was special, owning the gift of flight, but with much less grace. “Watch that landing, boy! You’ve got a passenger!”

“I will!” he called back.

“What about us?” Bobby complained.

“We ride,” Henry told him, “and you glide.” The boy nodded, pleased, and he closed his eyes. Bobby concentrated on the air around him, and Henry felt the shift in the air around him as it managed to grow even more frigid where they stood. Inches at a time, Bobby’s slight body encased itself in ice crystals, drawing them up from the ground. They spun around him in a charged, frantic dance, clinging to him, even fortifying him. When he opened his eyes again, he almost resembled a sculpture given the breath of life.

“Let’s go,” he told his guardians, and cold, frosty gusts of wind shot from his hand, hardening the snow ahead of him into crystalline sheets of ice.

“I want to come, too!” a feminine voice beckoned. Henry spun on its source, giving the child a grim look.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to do this, child. Not if you-“

“Let me help.” Determined eyes stared him down, blue as robin’s eggs. “You let Dani go.”

“She had to, child. She was the one best able to find Rahne.”

“I can help you get there,” she reminded him. “I need to do this, Henry. Don’t make me stay behind.”

As always, her voice held calm, cool reasoning far beyond her years. Henry sighed in exasperation.

“These aren’t kind men, child. They’re like the ones who hurt you. You don’t have to go through that again.”

“They’ll do the same to Rahne and the boy if I don’t go, Henry.” She thumped her first against her chest. “I feel it.”

“Stay behind me. Stay with Betsy.” Henry let go of his mare’s bridle and retied it to the tree. Now that Ororo was going with them on their trek, they wouldn’t need the animal after all.

*

 

The children rode across town toward the docks. Remy huddled protectively against the girl in an attempt to keep her from buffeting back and forth between himself and the carriage wall. She still wasn’t conscious, and her wan complexion troubled him. He was still shaken from seeing her change, unable to believe that she’d been a wolf only minutes before.

Madelyne watched them in amusement. “What’re you staring at, brat? Eyes down!” 

“He ain’t listenin’, milady.”

“Do something about it.” Her valet reached into his pocket and grabbed what looked like a second gag, but he used it instead to bind Remy’s eyes shut, blindfolding him. He gave Remy’s cheek a playful slap. “Much better.” Remy fumed and fretted, squirming uncomfortably until she snarled at him to stop.


	5. Subterfuge, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven’s talent for masquerade is only rivaled by Victor’s desperation to protect his own secret. While a kingdom mourns, a queen gloats.

When Victor returned to the palace, he steeled himself and leashed the shame burning inside him. He clutched the box against his chest as he led Brutus back into his stable. 

He hid it in the hayloft, covering it beneath a blanket. He needed to think fast and act faster, and his resolve fastened itself more strongly when he spied the king’s guard searching the grounds with torches. Jean-Luc himself was outside, too, looking frantic.

“VICTOR!” he roared. “Where the hell is my son?”

“MAJESTY!” He cleared his throat and closed his eyes for a brief moment, mastering his emotions. “I have unfortunate news of the prince.” Jean-Luc’s eyes bulged, and he rushed forward, barreling into Victor’s bulk. He grasped the giant huntsman’s collar and jerked him down to search his blue eyes, looking for artifice or treachery.

“TELL ME!” Victor winced, ears stung by the too-close proximity of his strident baritone. Jean-Luc’s pupils were dilated and he was nearly frothing.

“He’s…gone, sire.”

“WHAT!” Jean-Luc’s legs worked of their own accord, launching Victor back into the stable. His hand fastened around the man’s throat and rammed him back against the wall. Victor was paralyzed by his strength and madness and felt his heartbeat skipping; he grew dizzy and his head throbbed, both from his earlier injury and the one his king was inflicting on him now.

“He was taken, sire!”

“Taken?” Jean-Luc sputtered. “TAKEN! How does my son, a PRINCE, surrounded by his father’s guards and staff, get taken from my land?”

Victor pleaded with him, “Come. Look.” His thoughts raced; Jean-Luc wouldn’t loosen his grip. “Mercy, sire. I beg of you. Come and look.” His hands carefully attempted to pry Jean-Luc’s hands away from his windpipe. “Look.” He edged away from him, adhering to the wall behind him, knowing he’d regret it if he turned his back on his liege in his current state. Jean-Luc’s breathing was harsh and uneven. He stood in a broad, intimidating stance, resembling an angry bull.

“Make it quick,” he snapped.

“H-he, he left these, sire,” Victor explained, hurrying over to a shelf. He held up the neat stack of Remy’s clothing that he’d put aside for him. Jean-Luc’s mouth dropped open in mute shock. He reached for the clothing, snatching them from Victor’s grip. His fingers shook as he touched the embroidered insignia of the family crest on Remy’s tunic. Victor wanted to weep as his liege brought the shirt up to his face, closed his eyes, and breathed in the boy’s scent.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “No. No, nononono…nonono. Remy…what did you do, son? Why?” He peered up at Victor, dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

“My coat was missing,” Victor told him. “I think he borrowed it.”

“We’ve been searching these bloody grounds… I’ve passed the sunset and the dawn since his birthday with no sight, hair nor word of my son. Please… if you know something, anything, Victor…”

“Sire,” Victor hesitated, grieving for what he had to do.

“TELL ME! IF YOU KNOW ANYTHING, TELL ME, DAMN YOU!”

“There’s no sign of him, sire, except for blood. I rode out looking for him, and I came to a clearing. I found blood, and signs of a struggle.”

“A struggle? What kind of struggle?”

“A…beast.”

“You’re a bloody huntsman,” Jean-Luc whispered. “A beast. You mean to tell me it was a beast, and you can’t tell what kind.” Victor shivered, both from the cold of the stable and the lies he was forced to tell. His conscience nagged at him to confess: This is all my fault. I lost your son.

“Thistle came back without him,” Jean-Luc continued. “When my men saw that bloody horse outside, saddled but with no rider, they delivered word to me, and I’ve had no rest since. Now you show me his clothing…” Jean-Luc’s jaw worked. He looked desperate and on the edge.

“Sire…there were tracks in the snow, as though…as though a body had been dragged through it.” Victor inserted the necessary element of truth into his tale.

“Dragged!” Jean-Luc shook his head, and the tears finally fell.

“He’s gone, sire,” Victor confessed.

All of Jean-Luc’s royal guard cringed and grieved for him when he wailed with despair and collapsed to his knees.

*

Raven watched the scene from her window, admiring the ghost of her own reflection in the glass. She allowed herself a brief, satisfied smile. It was done. Victor had done his part well.

She spun and approached the mirror, the hem of her robe whipping out behind her. “Mirror,” Raven ordered, “is the boy in the woods?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Did Victor bring me the boy’s heart?” she demanded, voice rising with excitement.

Cerebra hesitated a moment, then said “Yes.”

“At last,” Raven whispered. “Gone. I’ve won.” Raven felt a frisson of pleasure run through her belly and the tell-tale spasms in her womb as she fell over the edge, experiencing a climax that shook her to her core.

Cerebra was silent, thinking.

*

 

Raven was the picture of grief and wailing despair when Remy’s clothes were laid on her bed. Jean-Luc knelt at her feet and buried his face in her lap and wept. She had no words of comfort for him, only mourned with him, assuring him that she, too, would never rest.

She gave him the sleeping draught anyway; Jean-Luc was so focused on his pain that he never tasted it.

Raven waited until he was sprawled across his own bed, discreetly carried there by Wilfred, before she began to get dressed. She changed out of the robes and donned a sturdy wool dress and stockings, heavy Wellingtons on her feet, and then added a rich fur cloak. Raven crept down the rear stairwell, bypassing the servants, and she exited the palace through the butcher’s cellar.

Raven snuck out to the stable, where she knew Victor was waiting. He looked as far-gone as Jean-Luc, and a whisky bottle dangled from his fingertips.

“Did you bring it?” she asked him breathlessly. He looked up at her in disbelief, taking in the rosy color in her cheeks and the joy shining in her eyes. She looked like a child who’d been shaking boxes, waiting for Christmas. 

“Aye,” Victor told her. He didn’t set down the bottle as he moved up to the hayloft, climbing the ladder. He returned with a small box, whose hasp and lock were smeared with something dark. She sucked in a breath, and her hands trembled as she took it from him. “It’s yours, my queen.”

Raven fiddled with the lock and pried it open impatiently. She flipped open the lid and then nearly dropped it. The organ was tender-looking and gleamed with congealed blood. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that it still pulsed with life. She refrained from touching it, but it was all she could do not to hold it up and squeeze it in her first in triumph.

“You’ve done your part, and done it well,” she told him. Victor said nothing. For the first time ever, he turned his back on her; then he picked up the bottle and held it back up to his lips, taking long, greedy swallows.

*

Victor awoke to a faint, sweet whisper in the darkness. He moaned in protest as he opened his eyes, and instantly he prayed it wasn’t Raven come to celebrate her victory.

Instead, he wondered if he’d gone mad.

The glowing apparition before him smiled at him gently. “Hallo, Victor.”

“Madness,” he whispered. He scrambled back against his headboard, clutching the bedclothes. “Spirits!”

“Nay, not spirits. Just one. Me.”

“No! Y-you c-can’t…what are you doing…are…” he gulped. “Are y-you here…to take me…are you Death?”

“Nay. I’m not even here to judge.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend of the prince, although he doesn’t know it yet. My name is Cerebra.”

The creature before him was achingly beautiful. She shimmered before him, glowing with ethereal bluish-white light. An intelligent, high forehead rose above arched brows and large, slanted eyes. Her cheekbones were high and sculpted; her nose was slightly upturned and her lips were full and soft as rose petals. She wore a gauzy, fluttering gown of iridescent, constantly shifting shades of pink, lilac, and wisteria.

“I’m here to make you an offer.”

“What?”

“To save your soul. I’m giving you the chance to help Remy.”

“D-don’t hurt me,” Victor pleaded. He shivered and trembled, unconvinced that she wasn’t an angel of vengeance come to deliver him to hell. But she tutted and shook her head.

“Of course not, silly. I won’t harm you. But I know what you did. I know the part you played in my mistress’ schemes. I know you can’t live with yourself, because I see and know all.”

“How?”

“That, I can’t tell you. But I’ll tell you this: Remy is in grave danger. You’ve spurned the fates, Victor Creed. The prince has been kidnapped by those who would exploit him despite his status. They don’t realize that they hold the crown prince in their grasp.”

“Oh, no. You don’t understand… I didn’t mean for this to happen! I’d never harm – “ He stopped himself. Cerebra raised an eyebrow and cocked her head doubtfully and tsked. “You don’t understand,” he recanted. “I meant to take him back to the castle! All of the sudden, I found myself lying on the ground, and the prince was gone! I was planning to renege on my vow, and I know I’ll be cursed for it, and charged with treason, but at least the boy would be safe! The lad told me I could run away. And damn my eyes, I should have run away, because I am, indeed, a coward. A lowly, bloody coward and traitor to my king.”

“You were cowardly, and you were an accessory to my mistress’ mad scheme,” Cerebra told him soberly. “But act quickly. The prince is in the next town north, and no one so far recognizes who he is. All they see is a beautiful, vulnerable boy who doesn’t know his own identity or what happened to him.”

“What do you mean, he doesn’t know?”

“He was struck on the head. He remembers nothing.” Victor’s brows slammed down and his nostrils flared. He flung the covers aside and leapt from bed. “Now you understand.”

“Guide me. If you would have me help the boy, don’t steer me wrong,” he barked at the apparition.

“I would never steer you wrong,” she agreed. “Take your coat. And your knife.” When he reached for his tunic that bore the royal seal, she stopped him. “You’ll need something that won’t allow them to recognize you. This will be dirty work.”

“Aye,” he mused. “It will.”

No one saw his steel away on Brutus’s back in the middle of the night. Even if they had, they wouldn’t have recognized the man in a plain, dark cloak in tattered leathers and rags. Victor was every inch the ruined, lost soul; he wasn’t merely playing a role.

*  
Raven stole into the kitchen at midnight, rummaging as silently as she could for the implements she needed. She gathered up a small iron pot with a heavy lid and some seasonings, and then took a book of matches from the cupboard. She bundled them up into a sack and donned her heaviest coat and boots.

She tramped out into the yard with a lantern, cursing the bitter winds. Overhead, a blackbird cawed, and she tsked at it; the beastie wasn’t anymore sensible than she was, being out on a night like this. But she couldn’t contain herself any further. Victory was hers. She aimed to celebrate it.

The box seemed to pulse in her grip where she kept it bundled against her. She made her way out to the stables and was actually grateful that Victor wasn’t there. The wretch had served his purpose, she supposed. She’d miss their romps, as well as his generous cock, but there was no help for it. He’d exhausted his usefulness in their arrangement, and it was time to look to the future. Perhaps that young, brown-eyed buck she’d seen the last time at court? She pondered the possibilities while she made the fire.

Raven hummed as she worked, filling the pot with fresh snow. She let it melt over the open flame and shook in a handful of seasonings. The wind snuck between the slats of the stable walls, making a mournful trilling sound. Raven found the footmen’s hidden stash of whiskey and swigged a drink of it straight from the bottle, pleased with how it burned its way down. She stared into the flames and pondered. It was a good night, indeed.

She opened the box at last and gazed down at her trophy. The heart was dark and shiny with blood, mottled with rippled flesh. “Long live the queen,” she murmured as she took it out, savoring the feel of it in her palm. She squeezed it, envisioning what it had been like for Victor to carve open Remy’s chest with his mean-looking knife and reach inside. She wished she’d done the deed, felt those arteries pulsing with nourishing blood, still warm as it was pried from between his ribs… Raven shivered.

She cast the wolf’s heart into the pot and let it simmer for an hour while she gloated and made plans. She didn’t know that Irene was upstairs, silently weeping by the window, or that Cerebra was watching her, an invisible, floating presence that even imbued the wind.

The first bite of the steaming meat made her chuckle. She stabbed into it again and again with her knife and fork, tearing it apart lustily. She crammed bites of it into her mouth with increasing hysteria, unable to believe that it was real. The brat was gone. He was gone. Raven had everything.

She laughed in defiance to the wind, warning away the blackbirds. This night was hers.*

*

“Get them upstairs,” Madelyne snapped. Remy struggled with her on his way out of the carriage. He grunted and tried to cry out around the gag, and Jase was rewarded with a swift kick in the shins when he tried to strong-arm him into the three-story building by the docks. Douglas whimpered as he watched their skirmish, praying that Remy could break free and somehow manage to help them both. Jase slapped him soundly and Remy reeled back, but he kicked him again, surprising him that he would dare try again after receiving the punishing blow. Remy’s cheek throbbed and he was sore from the cramped carriage ride of the past several miles. He took advantage of how close Jase and Donald were due to his blindfold; they had to haul him against them to make him go where they wished, leaving their shins and feet easy game. He knew if they locked him inside again, he was as good as dead.

“Lil’ shit,” Donald cursed when Remy pranced, kicking out with his boots and jerking his shoulders to elbow the bulk that was closest. His cries were ragged and strained, but no one came to his rescue. Dock workers, sailors and prostitutes occasionally peered in his direction, but they knew Madelyne Pryor’s reputation and steered clear of her. She was known widely for her heart being as black as her attire and for beating her whores of both genders, hardly allowing them to keep a penny for themselves. Madelyne gleaned new “workers” from orphanages and sweat shops, and she took advantage of young men and women who sailed to the docks from afar, when Shaw’s network of thieves and swindlers robbed them of their money and possessions, leaving them desperate and alone.

She held disdain for children, considering them miserable, mewling little wretches, but she appreciated that some of her clientele preferred young, innocent meat and that they paid top dollar. Douglas had that sweet, golden look that made her easy money, but Remy was just on the edge of manhood, spirited but still malleable, lyrically handsome, and he had those unique eyes. She wondered how they would look when he was broken.

Jase sneered, “I’ve got just the thing to fix ‘im!” He reached into his pocket for a small brown bottle. Donald grinned and took a small, dirty rag from his own pocket.

“That’s just the thing, all right!” He handed Jase the cloth and watched him struggle with him, splashing the liquid into it. He pulled away the gag and clamped the cloth around Remy’s nose and mouth; the cloying, acidic fumes burned their way down Remy’s throat and he grew dizzy. His scream was interrupted by the weakness in his legs and Jase’s cruel laugh. He passed out, falling limply against Donald, who hauled him over his shoulder like a bag of laundry.

They carried him upstairs, letting their jokes and laughter rise over the sound of their own booted feet clumping across the planks. Two of Madelyn’s other toughs dragged Rahne and Douglas behind them and dumped them into another empty room, deciding that there was safety in separation; the younger pups would be too easily influenced by the tall one, and he’d no doubt try to protect them. They didn’t need the nuisance of him struggling over their behalf, and they had plans for him that were best executed while they had him to themselves, without an audience.

*

 

Victor rode hard into the night, with Cerebra’s disembodied voice guiding him. Her scant glow led him through the wilderness and lit his way, driving away the creatures that would have considered him prey. Wind and snow pelted him, chapping his skin and biting into his core with relentless cold. He ignored it, feeling it was fitting punishment for his transgression.

He saw Remy’s frightened eyes everywhere that he looked. The boy’s voice pleaded with him, still, as he forded a shallow, slushy stream whose frigid water splashed up over his boots and wet his legs. Lanterns gradually came into view from the road as he reached the edge of the woods, just as dawn approached. Bluish light painted the snow with glints and twinkles, making tree branches dressed in icicles resemble chandeliers of crystal. 

“Hurry, now,” Cerebra beckoned to him. “The day is still young. I’m with him, Victor, but he needs you.” Her body vanished into the cold, misty air, but a remnant of her glow rematerialized into a tiny, winking star that drifted along the wind, still guiding him. He urged his horse to a gallop and continued his search for the lost prince.


	6. Subterfuge, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his bid for redemption and his search for redemption, Victor makes new friends.

Rahne awoke first from the haze of sedative, thanks to her heightened metabolism and the vestige of an enhanced healing factor in her blood. She cried out, startled when she saw her surroundings. This definitely wasn’t her room that she shared with Dani; the furnishings were once elegant, possibly, but they appeared shabby and neglected. There was an obscene painting of a couple engaging in carnal acts painted in shocking hues. The window was draped in garish red curtains that Rahne assumed could be seen from the docks. The lacy coverlet on the bed was dusty and torn, and there was a threadbare Persian rug on the floor. The gilt edging around the dresser was chipped here and there, and one drawer was missing a handle.

*Dani?*

She shifted to her transitional form and called out to her.

*We’re here.* She wanted to weep with relief at the sound of her voice in her head. *Where are you?*

*Here. In town. In an ugly room.*

*But where?* Dani’s voice in her mind sounded impatient and frustrated.

“Give me a moment, lass,” Rahne muttered aloud. They hadn’t gagged her; Rahne had been unconscious the longest, waking only long enough for them to dose her with the soaked rag. She struggled over to the window, still groggy. Her hands were bound behind her, making it difficult to maneuver, but she knelt by the window and craned her face through the divide in the curtains.

*I’m by the dock. Graymalkin Street.*

*Is there anything else? What does the building look like from the outside?*

*I can’t tell! I never saw the outside. But there’s red curtains. It’s ugly in here.*

*Look out onto the street. What can you tell us about the street?

*There’s a sign with a wolf’s head painted on it,* Rahne remarked. *I can’t read it from here. It looks like a shop.*

*It could be. That helps.*

*Hurry! Dani, I’m afraid! I miss you, I’m so afraid…*

Rahne ended her communication with Dani when she heard a low thump on the door, then a key being slid into the lock. In a twinkling, she shifted back to her human form, embarrassed that they would see that she’d been crying.

Two women entered the room, grinning at her maliciously. “What’ve we here? A redhead. Nothin’ but trouble, those redheads.”

“They fetch a big price, ninny.”

“Don’t ninny me, Regan. Find something to put on her. And let’s bathe this wretch, I can smell her from here.” They dragged Rahne to the bed and forced her to sit down. “Looks like a boy.”

“A very pretty boy. Look at those green eyes.”

“Leave me alone,” Rahne whimpered, shying away from their touch and their strongly perfumed aroma. Cloying smells aggravated her sensitive nose, and theirs were making her sick.

They were heavily painted and provocatively dressed. Both wore gaudy satin corsets edged in black lace that pushed up their creamy breasts into high, round mounds. The taller one had sandy brown hair bound up in a pompadour and a cheap string of pearls around her neck. A false beauty mark was drawn over her lip with black kohl. She smirked, marring her looks, and Rahne felt her stomach twist. These weren’t kind or gentle women, and she was at their mercy.

“Nay. We won’t leave you alone any more than the customers. Get used to not gettin’ your own way, little miss, and to lettin’ them have THEIR way.”

“No!” Rahne cried. Her eyes widened as they brought in a tub and began filling it with steaming buckets of water.

“Get her out of those rags, Adrienne.” She fought them as they tugged her out of her simple brown dress and petticoat and dragged her into the tub once they untied her wrists. They slapped her for her insolence. Callously they scrubbed her skin with harsh lye soap, including her short hair. She screamed when some dribbled into her eyes and earned another slap for her troubles.

Rahne couldn’t tolerate their treatment of her any further, and with a thought, she changed to her transitional form, striking their hands with her clawed fingers. Rahne bared her teeth and hissed, and both women reared back, eyes blazing with anger and fear.

“What is this thing?” Regan cried.

“A nasty demon, you idiot!” Adrienne informed her. She watched the other woman cower by the door, but she reached for the poker.

*Rahne? I can feel you again.*

“Nay, Dani, not now,” Rahne growled aloud.

“You’re right, beast. Not now! You won’t get away from what we have planned for you now.” She swung the poker over her head and struck her, and Rahne collapsed once again, shifting back to a fragile, naked girl once more.

“Easier to get her dressed this way, anyway,” Adrienne muttered as Regan tutted in concern. Both women rummaged in the armoire for an outfit suitable to present the girl and her wares.

*

 

Victor made his way through the pubs and shops, looking for signs of Remy. It grew difficult to track Cerebra, as she continued to wink in and out in an effort to keep herself out of sight. He rode all morning long, a large, intimidating presence on a black horse. The locals avoided him, since a brief glimpse at the face beneath the hood told him he meant business and wouldn’t brook delays.

*

“There’s the alehouse,” Betsy announced. She ignored the looks of admiration from onlookers as she led the children through the crowd.

“How do we know if he’s inside?” Warren demanded. “Do we just knock on the door?”

“No. We take the more direct approach,” Henry said grimly. He marched into the alley beside the alehouse and headed for the service entrance. Two men smoking pipes and telling bawdy stories looked up when they saw a man built like an ape, wearing a concealing cloak and heavy gloves ambling up to them.

“What’s this? If ya want a drink, you’ll have to go in through the front door and pay for a pint like everyone else!”

“I don’t want a pint,” Henry told them, peering up at them from beneath his hood. The man’s smile evaporated.

“Shit!” Before he could react, Henry’s gloved hand shot out and collared his throat, banging him back against the door.

“I want to know what you’ve done with a young man with red eyes, and a carrot-topped little girl.

“Y-you’re not human!”

“You’re not humane,” Henry corrected him. “I hate it when men like you make me soil my hands, friend, but there’s no help for it.” He sighed as he jerked him out of the doorway and flung him across the alley into the adjacent building’s wall like so much garbage. “Warren, do the honors,” Henry told his protégée. Warren smiled gracefully and reached for the other man’s wrist.

“What? Let go!”

“Let’s go for a ride,” Warren suggested instead, and he flung away his cloak, revealing his wings. They unfurled with a broad, sharp snap to their full glory, white feathers gleaming in the morning light. With one mighty flap, he launched himself into the air, carrying the man by the wrist. It was a strain, since he wasn’t accustomed to carrying a passenger, but he chortled at the man’s curses and high-pitched weeping. His flight was choppy and uneven as they soared several meters above the ground, more reminiscent of Sam’s aerial prowess, and he knew the taller, skinnier blond would tease him about it if he was watching, but Warren did as Henry bade him. The ruffian dangling from his hand looked florid and nauseous.

“Where’s Rahne?” Warren demanded. “We know you took her. Where is she?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about a lil’ girl!”

“Yes, you do!” Warren snapped. He dropped him, then dove down as the man wheeled in the air. He caught him by the heel this time, mid-plummet, and this time Shaw’s man made a low gurgling sound. “She’s just a little girl, and I consider her my sister.”

“We…we don’t have…her…” The man gulped back his gorge and his heart pounded in his chest, threatening to stop altogether if the bird-boy didn’t put him down. The townsfolk pointed and stared at the spectacle as fear bloomed in their hearts. Was this an angel in their midst, or a demon?

Henry barged into the alehouse, with Betsy and Ororo hot on his heels. Ororo shivered, uncomfortable in the cramped, darkened surroundings. She gathered her cloak more closely around her body and felt Betsy’s psychic presence in her mind.

*It’s all right,* she soothed, taking Ororo’s hand.

*No. It’s not. I hate this place.*

*I know.* Betsy squeezed her hand. *You’re being very brave.*

Ororo was winded from their journey, but she’d been exhilarated by it, too, with the cold wind blowing through her hair and making her clothing ripple around her body. She was immune to the frigid conditions, and thankfully Henry was gifted with his generous coat of fur to protect him from the elements. Betsy wasn’t so lucky, and she was still chilled to the bone and shivering. But she ignored her numb fingers and the way her nose itched as her face began to warm itself.

“She’s not here,” Betsy told them.

“What the hell are you tramps doing inside my house?” a voice behind them boomed. Shaw stood with his fists planted at his hips, broad and intimidating. His dark eyes bore into them and he sneered. “You have no business here.”

“We do. You took something of ours, and we want it back.”

“Tell us where she is. And the boy, too,” Betsy added, flanking Henry and staring scornfully at the man who thought he could get in their way.

“It’s none of your business,” he said, shrugging. “Should’ve kept a better eye on the pups, instead of troubling me with your worries when it’s too late.” Ororo made a sound of distress. “Especially you, little one. You don’t belong in a place like this, unless you work here in the parlor. If you don’t leave now, I’ll have your hide to lay in front of my fireplace as a rug, and your girls here in silk stockings selling my ale and their pretty-“

Henry barreled into him with an angry roar.

*

 

Victor obeyed Cerebra’s whispered directions in his ear, guiding Brutus toward the docks. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the whores and some gap-toothed men playing a shell game and throwing dice. Victor had grown up in a neighborhood like this, and he’d always been grateful to find himself in the king’s employ with duties he was proud of. If he hadn’t risen above the circumstances of his birth, he’d still be here, either swindling or being swindled.

He didn’t trust the looks of the denizens enough to want to tether Brutus while he went inside. The horse nickered at him uneasily, as though he wasn’t enjoying the prospect, either, and he flicked his long, glossy black tail in protest.

A woman of ill repute sidled up to him as he tied the horse’s bridle. “Fancy a toss?” she beckoned. He winced at how close she stood and her fetid breath, even though she was comely. She wore an unrepentantly red gown and her hair hanging down her back in a riot of curls, dressed with a tiny feathered cap. Her coat was open despite the chill, revealing her endowments shamelessly.

“Nay,” he muttered.

“There’s sweetness to be found in these knickers,” she promised, pouting. “Don’t know how good you’ve had it til you’ve had little Pearl.”

“Pearl, huh?”

“Aye. If you’ve ten gold coins, I’ve an hour to put a smile on your handsome face.” He smiled knowingly and drew her close, as though he was about to share a secret.

“There’s diseases in those knickers of yours, pet,” he told her, enjoying her horrified expression. “And I’m looking for something younger and more tender than you.” She raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist and shoved her back roughly, nearly making her slip in the slush and ice on the street.

“What do you know of tender? You’ve been hacked about as much as I have, from the looks of you!”

“Aye, lass. I’m used up, and I’m in no mood for games.” She attempted to move away, but he caught her wrist again and jerked her close. “You’re going to help me.”

“Like hell I will!”

“Aye, you will. Tell me where I can find a boy I’m looking for.” At this she brightened, her painted lips curling into a smirk.

“So that’s how you fancy it. Well, well…”

“Tell me!” he barked, spittle flying from his lips. He looked the picture of rage and impatience, eyes dilated and nostrils flaring. His heavy blond brows slammed down over his eyes and long, mulish lines bracketed his lips. She felt his hot breath and shivered. “Not just any boy. I want the boy I know was brought into town two nights ago.”

“I might know of a new prize that my mistress brought home,” she stammered. Her voice went from coy to anxious as Victor gripped her face, fingers biting painfully into her cheeks. “Feisty thing…”

“Where?”

“My tongue might loosen a bit for some coin,” she suggested hopefully. His gaze was thunderous.

“I’ll loosen it for you with my knife if you don’t lead me to him.”

“Don’t…don’t be hasty.” She searched his face for compassion and found none. His voice was low, growling hiss.

“I promise you…you won’t be so lovely anymore if you delay me long enough that the boy comes to harm. Even a hair on his head, I promise you. I think you know the boy I’m looking for. Tall. Thin as a wisp. Long, silky hair the same color as cinnamon.”

“Perhaps I’ve seen a boy like that, but they’re a dime a dozen around here,” she sniffed.

“This one’s special.”

“What could be so special about him?”

“His eyes. Like none you’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve seen ‘em all. Tell me another one.” But he saw her falter, heard her voice catch; she knew who he was talking about.

“His name’s Remy.”

“Common enough name.”

“He’s no commoner.” Her brows lifted and her smile shuttered again. “Important people are looking for him.”

“No more important than you,” she scoffed.

“Much more than me.”

*

 

“What’s going on down there?”

“Where?”

“What’s that man doing?” Dani asked, pointing toward the dock. Sam hadn’t landed yet, and she was bracing herself for what she knew would be an iffy landing. Sam’s face mirrored her concern as he saw a large man haggling with a woman in red.

“Payin’ for time with a painted lady,” Sam shrugged. She could barely hear him over the wind and his own blasting field generated by his flight. “Can’t worry about it now, Grumpy.” It was a hated nickname, and Dani would make him pay for it later, but she was still worried.

“He might hurt her. Take us down, Sam.”

“We’ve gotta look for the building Rahne told you about!” He was already descending, even as he protested. Dani’s instincts were usually correct.

“We can look on foot.”

He took them down, and she closed her eyes, holding onto him extra tight. Sam’s muscles tensed and she felt him straining for control as he tried to angle his legs down to land on foot. His blasting field, which offered him a great deal of invulnerability to injury, was a double-edged sword; it was difficult to steady himself when it came time to stop, and he frequently face-planted as he reached the earth.

This time was a welcome exception, except that he didn’t calculate the slickness of the damp snow. He skidded wildly through it, blazing a trail toward a nearby vendor cart. “WHOOOO-OH-OOOOAAA!” Dani cried out. They landed in a tangle of limbs and fallen produce. Dani checked them both over for broken bones, then removed a leaf of cabbage from her hair.

“My cart! DEMONS! My CART!” the vendor cried. “You little hooligans! You’ll pay for this!”

“We ain’t demons,” Sam explained hastily.

“Sorry!” Dani offered. “We’ve gotta go!” She shook her head at his supplies. “Those bananas look rotten, anyway…”

“ROTTEN?!?!”

“Bye,” Sam told him quickly as he dragged Dani away. They hurried away toward the pier, checking the street for the man and woman they spied earlier.

“There she is!” Dani hissed. “He’s going to hurt her, Sam! He’s got a knife!”

“Not for long,” he vowed, and Dani felt the air around them charging with energy as Sam powered his blast field.

“Careful!” she called out.

“I am!” he argued as he took off like a shot. Sam careened through the street, passing openmouthed onlookers. He aimed for the large man’s back, hoping he made his mark.

 

Victor’s breath exploded from his chest as something barreled into his back with the force of a hundred elephants, lifting him off his feet. The woman in red was knocked aside, landing ungracefully on her rump, but she was relieved to be free of the threat of Victor’s knife. Automatically she ran for the homely, three-story building across the street and two blocks down. She glanced curiously at the two youngsters that appeared out of nowhere, one a tall, gangly blond who might possess rugged good looks when he was fully grown, and an exotic looking girl with dark skin and long, shining black plaits.

Victor recovered himself, but his whole body throbbed with pain, not only his back, but also his palms and knees where he’d skidded and tried to catch himself upon impact. His knife skittered away across an icy puddle, just shy of being knocked off the pier. He roared angrily and struggled to his feet, and Sam met his glare and heaving, massive chest as he accosted him. Victor’s large hand tangled itself in Sam’s coat, and he lifted him off the ground, no mean feat. He shook him.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done! She was going to tell me where he is!”

“You don’t hurt a lady!” Sam accused.

“Not while we’re here!” Dani added. Adrenaline pumped in her system as she saw Sam’s frightened eyes, and she concentrated on the giant holding him captive. She reached out with psychic fingertips and brushed the surface of Victor’s mind, pulling forth his greatest fear. Victor’s eyes bulged and he staggered, unaccustomed to the sensation of someone breaching his mental defenses.

“Put him down!” Dani cried.

“God in heaven,” Victor grunted as he felt part of himself being stolen away. The fragment of his psychic essence flew from him, materializing before him, to his horror. Sam gasped at the vision, then grunted as the giant huntsman dropped him. Victor’s hands flew up to his head, tangling in his hair, pressing against his temples in an attempt to stem the vision and cut it short, but it played out before them all. He was helpless.

The image before them shifted, warped by a strange, rosy mist. Victor’s knife appeared, streaked with thick blood. It faded away, replaced by the sight of Victor pinning Remy to a tree, his face crazed and desperate as he brandished the knife at his vulnerable throat.

“Spirits,” Dani whispered. “No! What have you done?”

“I…haven’t,” Victor swore, voice strained and guttural.

The image changed again, this time to a beautiful woman with blonde hair, laughing shrilly as she held up a box. Inside it was a gruesome token, bleeding and…beating. Sam realized it was a heart, and he began to wretch onto the ground, soon followed by Dani.

The final shift in the vision they saw was of the woman carrying Remy in her arms, lifeless and unmoving. She cast his body into a deep chasm, which Dani and Sam realized was a grave once they read the large, carved stone. 

“Who’s Remy?” Dani asked.

“He’s…the prince,” Victor whispered. “He’s…special. And he’s in danger…” Dani released her grip on him, and he collapsed to his knees. “Damn it…what’d you do to me?”

“I didn’t mean it…you were going to hurt Sam.”

“Wouldn’t have, if you pups hadn’t come after me like that,” Victor sputtered impatiently. Sam dutifully offered him his hand and helped him to his feet. “Brats. Where are your parents?”

“We have none,” Dani snapped. “What’s it to you? Why were you going after that woman?”

“She knows where Remy is, the boy I’m trying to save.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was taken,” Victor growled. “While I was out hunting with him.”

“Hunting?” Dani demanded. “Wait, you tried to hurt him. You’re trying to kill him!”

“Nay!” he said quickly. “Not anymore!”

“That doesn’t sound much better,” Sam reminded him angrily. “Who’s to say you aren’t going to try again when you find him, huh?”

“Why are you here?” Victor said, changing the subject. “What brings you to the docks?”

“We’re looking for my sister,” Dani told him. “She was taken, too. She was caught when she followed a boy that she said someone tried to hurt back in the woods, while she was hunting.”

“Are you out of your minds? You sent a little girl hunting?”

“She’s special,” Sam explained. “That’s all you need to know.”


	7. Subterfuge, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prince, no more?

Remy didn’t remember waking up, thanks to a dose of opiate that one of the men chortling over him poured into a glass of juice that they’d forced down his throat. The room spun, and he was awake, but not himself. A floating sensation swamped him, and he felt as though he were hearing and seeing everything through a fog.

He tried to protest the hands pulling at him and removing his clothing. He was being bathed, and their hands were rough, intrusive and unwelcome, not the loving hands of a caregiver or a parent. His long, fraying plait was unraveled, and someone combed his hair, also too roughly, but it shone in the firelight as it rippled down his back. He vaguely heard someone mention that it was far too pretty to belong to a boy. Someone stroked his cheek, inadvertently probing a tender spot that he knew was a bruise, and he gasped in pain. In the back of his mind, Remy cried out in denial, revulsed at this treatment.

They laid him back on the bed and draped a sheet over him, just enough to cover his privates.

“It’d help if he were more lively than that.”

“He needed a dose; this one had too much fight left in him. He’s easier to handle this way.”

“Damn, he’s pretty.”

“Love a go at this one myself, but the customer gets the first lick at him.”

“Lucky bastards…”

Remy’s limbs felt limp and heavy, while his mind felt weightless. He wanted to protest but he couldn’t think coherently enough to form words, while they moved him about like a doll. He knew without a doubt that worse things would happen if he didn’t get away; it made no sense to him to rely on their mercy, when they appeared not to own so much as a lick.

He eyed his clothing. They’d left his pants and grubby tunic folded inside the armoire, with the door slightly ajar. They’d run off with his boots, something he was sure was calculated. 

“Where did mistress get this one?”

“From Shaw.”

“Wonder where he found this one. Look at him. He’s well-fed. No scars.”

“Nice hair, too. Someone’s taken good care of it; the lad might’ve been from money.”

“Like hell. What’s he doing here, then? No one comes to us from money!”

“That leaves the real question, then; wonder if anyone’s out lookin’ for him.” Remy felt a pall of concern fall over the occupants of the room, knowing it wasn’t on his behalf, but their emotions were less cocky and indolent.

 

“Where’s… my father?” Remy rasped.

“The little bugger’s summonin’ us,” one of the men sniggered. “Ain’t gonna find yer father here, lil’ pretty.” Remy’s eyes filled and he jerked his face away as one of them leaned down over him, close enough for him to smell his foul breath. “Ain’t no way t’send for him, either. You belong to Mistress, now. And pretty soon, to us, too, every night when yer used up.” Fear squeezed Remy’s heart in an iron band.

Adrenaline trickled through him, making his extremities twitch. Remy focused himself and concentrated on breathing in and out, and out of nowhere, a memory came to him that took him away from the harsh faces and jeering voices, offering him a moment of reprieve.

 

*A long time ago, there was a little boy who lived in the forest and who sang with the wolves. This boy was afraid of nothing…*

Remy felt the tears trickle back from his eyes down into his hair.

*He had no mother or father, except for the wolves. They raised him like their own cub, and he grew strong and quick…*

Remy remembered a masculine voice telling him the story, but he didn’t know whom it belonged to. The voice soothed him, even the memory of it, but he felt a keen ache, and bereft. He listened to his own heartbeat, a deep, heavy thud in his chest. Then he listened to the voice, straining his memory and searching his soul for more of it.

*

*The little boy’s father was a soldier and fell to the enemy’s sword, and the night his mother learned of this misfortune, she died of a broken heart. The little boy had no one to take him in, no other family, and no other friends. He had to fend for himself and he became very wild and untamed. That was when he discovered that the creatures of the forest were his friends. The wolves found him when a group of boys from the village taunted him, throwing stones and calling him names. They ran the boys off and led him away, giving him their den to rest and care for his injuries.*

 

Remy fell into despair when he couldn’t remember the rest.

*

 

“They’re at the docks,” Shaw rasped, spraying blood from his bruised lips as he spoke. He felt Henry’s hairy knuckles pressed around his throat and gulped with difficulty. “They’re at the Painted Lady. They belong to Madelyne. I sold them to her.”

“You sold children. What kind of monster are you?” Henry mused, shaking his head grimly.

“It’s a living. Whatever puts bread and meat on the table, demon. You’re a fine one to call me a monster.”

“You won’t have to worry about how you make your living anymore, Shaw,” Betsy told him. Her voice was uncharacteristically hard as she pulled Henry aside a moment and gently brushed her fingers over his temple. Shaw scowled at her nerve, then gaped in surprise as she crossed the threshold of his mind. His body began to twitch in small increments at first, then in sharp jerks, so roughly that his teeth clacked together. Henry backed away, too stunned to keep his grip on him.

Henry, Warren and Ororo backed away from the man gibbering and foaming at the mouth in the dank study. “What did you do to him, Betsy?” Warren asked quietly.

“Left him his life, but naught else,” she told him. “This is one of those things that I have to do that I wish I didn’t, Warren. I won’t explain it any further than that. It was for the good of the children. He won’t harm them anymore. Ever.” Ororo looked pacified by that and took Betsy’s hand. Henry led the way from the house, and Warren carried Betsy with him on his flight, with Ororo and Henry bringing up the rear on her winds.

*

“Get out of my way,” Victor told the boy and girl who stood between him and his source of information. “I need to go after her.”

“Sam, look!” Dani blurted. “Red curtains!” She pointed up at the window of the seedy building and then noticed a carved window shingle hanging from rusted hooks: The Painted Lady. 

“She’s in there,” Sam agreed. He took her hand and they ran through the snow, heedless of how slippery it was. They easily caught up to Victor, who banged on the door several times before he grabbed the knob. When he couldn’t force it open, he braced himself and rammed his shoulder into it. The wood groaned with each effort, but it was sturdier than the rest of the building, or it boasted a strong lock. He cursed as he threw himself at it, over and over.

“Get back,” Sam urged, grabbing his shoulder. Victor spun on him, glaring as though the boy had lost his senses.

“I need in there!”

“Let me,” Sam ordered. Victor was surprised that the boy had the nerve to tell him what to do, but the youngster’s chin tilted stubbornly and his mouth was a hard line. Sam backed up several paces and Victor almost laughed at him for his “running start.”

His smile faded when the boy’s lower body erupted into a blast of smoke and flames. He flung himself at the door fists first and plowed through it like paper. Fragments of the wood dangled from the hinges, and Victor and Dani jumped back from the bits that blasted back at them.

“He’s not so good at the landings,” she offered when they ran inside after him and noticed Sam staggering up from the floor, rubbing his tailbone. The clatter in the foyer brought several pairs of stomping feet and shouts, and Jase and Donald arrived wielding pistols and knives, eyes beady with scorn.

“What’s this? More children,” Jase sneered. “We’ve got to teach them some manners, too, just like the others.”

“Give me back my sister!” Dani grated through her teeth.

“Or what, lil’ lady? What’ll YOU do?”

“Don’t worry about the girl. Worry about me.” Victor was the picture of righteous anger, looming larger than any other man in the room.

“He has a gun!” Sam cried. He launched himself at Jase, even though there wasn’t much room to blast, but he relied on his invulnerability. He plowed into him and knocked the pistol from his hand, giving Victor the advantage.

“Stubborn pup,” he growled, but there was no malice in his voice; the boy meant well. He ran at Donald and eluded the knife as he lunged at him. His fist cracked across his jaw, dropping him like a rag doll. The other three men stood aghast at the turn the scuffle took, but they had to deal with these unwelcome guests, and quickly. Madelyne’s girls were already entertaining customers or working Graymalkin Street, and word was already out to her contacts that she had a new boy in her stable.

Madelyne looked up at the sounds of crashing and shouts. She threw down her quill pen and stomped toward the door in her ten-button boots. “What’s going on out there!” She jumped back as two of her girls ran by in their finery, terrified.

“Demons! Monsters! One flew, Mistress!”

“Flew?” she demanded incredulously. “I won’t believe such rub-“ She leapt back as a young boy slid past her down the hallway on what appeared to be a stretch of thin, sparkling ice.

Bobby caught up to Sam and Dani, thanks to Betsy’s telepathic signals. He knew he could move the most quickly through the house, and he grinned gleefully as the women ran from him at first glimpse. He peered into each doorway, occasionally discovering women in various stages of undress, and he had no problem with it. None at all. “RAHNEY!” he called out. He heard thuds as several of Madelyne’s toys slid over and tumbled on the ice trail. The house grew chilled from his handiwork and Sam’s, thanks to the destroyed front door that let in the cold winds.

*

 

Remy heard a familiar voice downstairs and started, emitting a low whimper. His hand jerked, clutching the sheet beneath him. The two men who hovered above him, poised to pull aside the sheet and molest him further. He shivered in revulsion when one of them licked his lips with want. But the voice grew louder and more furious, and he heard booted feet taking the stairs two at a time. More voices cried out in fear, or pain; Remy wasn’t certain which. The men holding him paused and listened to the commotion.

“Sounds like bedlam down there…”

“C’mon, then!” Reluctantly they left Remy alone, to his relief. He stretched and twisted in the bed, trying to get his bearings. His skin was chilled; his first priority was his clothes, but his limbs didn’t want to cooperate. Remy groaned and jerked his way to the edge of the bed, arms failing when he tried to rise.

Bobby hurried up to the second level, stomping away the shards of ice from his boots to avoid slipping on the stairs. “RAHNEY! RAHNE! Answer me! It’s me, Bobby,” he encouraged. 

As if the men in the foyer didn’t have enough to make them question their sanity with the blasting boy, an angel literally appeared in their midst. Warren glared at them as he just within in the doorway, just shy of the high ceiling. “Where is she?”

“Wh-who?”

“The little girl you stole,” he spat. “Her name’s Rahne, and we know she’s here.”

“Freak,” one of the men spat. He flung a fireplace poker at Warren’s chest, striking him squarely. He grunted in pain and crumpled, hitting the floor hard. The wind was knocked from him and he saw spots as he struggled up to his knees. His wings sheltered him protectively, and one of the toughs hurried up to him, jeering. He grasped Warren’s wing and twisted it, threatening to snap the cartilage.

“Ain’t so big now, with your fancy wings! I’ll pull out yer feathers one by one, I will!” The man’s laughter was cut short as Henry’s fist connected with the back of his head. The man let out a small “Oof” before he hit the floor, eyes rolling back up into his head.

“The hell you will,” Henry muttered. “Are you all right?”

“Kind of…ow.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Stay behind me.” Ororo followed Betsy inside, and Henry promptly gave them terse orders. “Go. Look upstairs for Rahne. We’ll take the first floor.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” purred a silky, feminine voice. A stunning redhead with a cruel smile stared them down from the corridor. She wielded a pistol and aimed it at Ororo’s heart. The girl’s blue eyes widened and her pulse raced.

“You have someone in your care who belongs with us. We’re taking her back.”

“And the boy,” Betsy informed her coldly. “You won’t use him or hurt him. We aren’t leaving without him.”

“Oh, but I think you are. This is my house. This is my place of business, and you’re trespassing. Do you know who I am?” she laughed. “I have the town’s sheriffs in my pocket. The tax collector’s my best customer, and my girls have bedded judges, dukes, bobbies and generals at my bidding. No one will believe you if you tell them that I kidnapped children. The boy’s nearly a man, he doesn’t look a day under thirteen.”

“He’s young enough that this life will ruin him. You have no shame, witch.”

“Shame’s for fools,” Madelyne snorted. “Shame doesn’t fill my pockets. I sell my toys’ delights to the highest bidder, and the boy’s a unique prize. The girl shows promise, too; she was a little bashful at first, but she’ll come around. She cleans up nicely.”

“What have you done to her?” Dani spat. Her dark eyes sparked with tears and anger and she balled up her fists. She eyed the gun warily, and Madelyne chuckled as she aimed it at her, instead.

“It’s not what I’ve done to her. It’s what my customers want that matters, what they’ll do when they drop a little coin into my coffers.”

“Beast,” Betsy snarled.

“Silly bitch,” Madelyne tsked. “One more word, and I’ll shoot one of these worthless little brats first. I’m not picky.”

“We’re not worthless,” Ororo told her calmly. Madelyne’s eyes swung around and pinned the dark-skinned girl covered in a concealing cape.

“You’re only worth as much as any of the johnnies are willing to pay me for you.”

“I decide what I’m worth, not them. Not you.” Madelyne shivered when she felt a fresh draft fill the room, and suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She watched the girl angrily, warily, and she tightened her grip on the pistol.

“What’s this? What’s happening?” Her mouth dropped open in awe as the girl’s eyes began to glow an eerie, otherworldly white. A strong wind gusted through the corridor, chilling its occupants, and outside, a previously bright day gave way to soupy, murky black clouds. The girl’s hood slipped down, and Madelyne gasped at the sight of her hair, a stunning, shining white. Her eyes crackled with energy and arcs of white lightning – lightning! – that charged the air and filled it with static. Henry felt his fur standing up, too, and it rankled him, left him on edge the way it always did when Ororo used this aspect of her gifts. Ororo raised her hand and directed a gale-force blast of wind at the madam, sweeping her off her feet. Madelyne grunted as her back hit the wall, and she was pinned there, struggling to hold on to the pistol.

“Ororo! Be careful! You can’t always control it!” Betsy cried.

“She deserves to be punished,” Ororo told her in a voice that was far too mature for a child. “She took Rahne, and she’s just a baby.”

“She’s not much younger than you, dear,” Henry said calmly, even though his heart was pounding. “This isn’t a decision you can make for yourself.” Ororo turned to him, unwilling to take her eyes off the woman who tried to kill them. Her eyes looked forsaken, and she gave him a hurt look.

“I have to protect Rahne!”

“And I have to protect you, dear,” he reminded her. “And that means not letting you do something you could regret for the rest of your life.” Ororo’s face beseeched him, but she steadied herself, only allowing one tear to slip down her cheek before she lowered her hand. The winds died down, and Madelyne collapsed, dropping the gun. Betsy took the opportunity to retrieve it, savagely kicking Madelyne’s hand away when she grabbed for it.

“You won’t take what’s mine from me!” she sneered as she coddled her wrist.

“We told you we’re taking back what’s ours, and you won’t stop us.” Betsy handed Henry the pistol and reached for Madelyne, grabbing her roughly by the arm. She hoisted her to her feet and shoved her back against the wall, pleased with the fear in her green eyes. She squeezed her limb so hard that her own fingers ached, and Madelyne whimpered, no longer the picture of smug control. “You bring children here when they’re young and helpless, and when they have no one to protect them. Let’s see how you like it.” Madelyne shook her head and fought her grip, but Betsy was resolute. She penetrated her mind and one by one, kicked down every wall. Madelyne’s body jerked as her memories were scoured and twisted, mashed together and pressed out like pulp through a sieve. Madelyne’s eyes took on a glazed look and her pupils dilated completely as Betsy turned her into a blank slate. Henry watched in horror as the woman dropped, and had to turn away as he met her staring eyes from where she lay on the floor, mouth ajar and oozing drool onto the wooden floor planks. It offended his sensibilities to see physical harm done to a woman, even though this was no worse than the punishment Betsy inflicted on Shaw.

A young woman dressed in a provocative, tourmaline pink frock ran into the corridor, doing nothing to right her clothing where it dipped too low. She gasped when she saw her proprietor lying on the floor.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s your problem now,” Betsy told her coldly. “Do with her what you want.” But to Betsy’s surprise, the woman smiled, and an ugly gleam shone in her eyes.

“We will,” she promised silkily. Henry shuddered, fur bristling.

 

Bobby made his way up to the top floor, gradually retracting the field of cold air he generated around his body, diffusing it back into the atmosphere. The coat of ice around his body chipped and flaked away with his movements and he shook away most of it in a shower of ice fragments as he turned the corner from the stairwell. “RAHNE!”

“Is she up here?” Warren called out, almost more hindered by his gift and the narrow corridors and stairwell. He nearly tripped over his wings in his effort to hurry. Dani and Sam were close behind, huffing their way up, both of them frantic to find their little sister.

“She’s scared!” Dani cried. “She’s so scared! RAHNE!”

*DON’T TOUCH ME!*

Rahne’s psychic distress gave Dani ugly chills, and she felt her revulsion and terror through their link. She banged on every closed door; there were roughly a half a dozen rooms on the top floor, since the building was at one point or another a hotel. “I can feel her,” Dani said under her breath. “I know she’s here, I know she’s here!” She jiggled the knob of the third room, then kicked it savagely. She heard voices of protest inside and beckoned to Bobby. “Freeze it!”

“Why?”

“Just do it!” He nodded, still confused, but Bobby leaned on the door with his hands and Dani watched as cold, misty air emanated from his hands, slicking over the door’s surface until it was coated with ice. “Make yourself shiny!” she commanded sternly. It dawned on him what she was asking, and he obeyed, icing himself over in a twinkling. “Now KICK it!”

BAM!!!

The door caved in, crashing open in a shower of splinters and ice chunks. A shrill scream greeted them as a woman and man in an unflattering pose hid beneath the meager blankets. “Where’s Rahne?”

“I don’t know any bloody ‘rain,’ girl! Are you daft?” the man bellowed. “I’m here to get what I paid for!”

“Go ahead,” Dani snapped. She glared at the woman. “Put your clothes back on.” They went to the next door, where she banged on it just as insistently. She saw the woman emerge from the room, gripping the blankets around her body. Beneath her thick rouge, her face managed to look flushed.

“What the hell are you children…oh, my,” she breathed, staring up at Warren in his splendor, wings rustling in such a way that he looked like he was preening.

“Where’s my little sister?”

“I can’t tell you,” the woman sniffed. “She’s in the middle of her own job, anyway…”

Dani didn’t let her finish her sentence. “No. She. Isn’t. We’re taking her out of here, and you can’t stop us.” The woman’s face throbbed where Dani slapped her sharply, with enough force to send her reeling back. 

“MMMM! MMMMPH! MMMNNN!” Dani ignored the woman at the sound of muffled whimpers behind the door across the hall.

“That’s Rahney!”

“We’re comin’, Rahney!” Bobby promised as he got ready to freeze the door again.

“Let me,” Henry boomed as he showed up behind them, winded and out of patience with the occupants of the brothel. “I’ve been wanting to break something all day.” Betsy didn’t add “Or someone” to his statement, even though she was sorely tempted. Henry raised his massive fist and plowed through the shoddy door in one blow, sending it crashing into the room, hinges dangling uselessly from the frame. He wasn’t even winded, but his heart nearly stopped at the sight of a grown man holding down his youngest charge and trying to yank down the flimsy bodice of the borrowed red gown she wore. He had his palm clapped over her mouth while she struggled, green eyes glazed over unnaturally with tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Her face had also been rouged and powdered, that alone enough to make Henry’s blood boil.

“ENOUGH! BASTARD!” he roared. Warren and Bobby flinched at the expletive and the fury in his usually calm voice. He was across the room in three steps and savagely yanked the man off of her, flinging him aside like a doll. “You DARE? To a CHILD???”

“Paid…for my time…” The man sputtered and glared at Henry as he tried to rise, but Henry was on him instantly, gripping his shoulder and driving his fist into the man’s teeth. He promptly coughed and spit out two. Henry hit him again, and again, pounding his fist into his sternum, bending him double with pain.

“I’ll make you pay again, you sonofabitch,” Henry grunted. “How. Dare. You. How. Dare. You.” His chants coincided with his blows, and Betsy brought up the rear of their group where they assembled in the hall. Dani rushed inside the room despite his show of violence, nonplussed when her sister was weeping on the bed, trying to hide her face in the pillow. Dani pulled her to her, and Rahne sobbed loudly against her shoulder, finally free to express her grief.

“We’re here,” Dani whispered. “We came for you.”

“Take me away,” Rahne sobbed, “please.”

“We will.”

“And the boys. Take them, too.”

“What boys?”

“The one that I found in the woods. The one that big blond man was trying to hurt. And the other little one.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I think his name was Douglas.”

“So we’ll grab him and get the heck out of here, too,” Sam decided for them. He helped Dani hoist Rahne from the bed, but the younger girl’s legs were wobbly. “What’d they do to her?”

“Gave me something…tasted bad,” Rahne whimpered. “I don’t want anymore.”

“They drugged her,” Henry spat. The man lay at his feet, struggling to get back up, but Henry kicked him and planted his foot in the center of his chest, holding him down.

“Henry,” Betsy urged, “let him go.”

“He still has too many teeth,” he snarled defiantly.

“Henry, let him GO.”

“Please, Henry,” Dani pleaded softly. “We need to get Rahne home.” Rahne sobbed as Dani finally let Sam take her from her arms and lift her up into his, carrying her like a toddler. Henry’s face was unrecognizable from the man they knew; his eyes were dilated, brows forming a hard hood over them to stem the fires burning in their depths. His sharp, leonine fangs were bared and his muzzle was drawn back from them, nostrils flared in warning. His chest was inflated with anger and the last hint of mastery that he held over his emotions, making him take up more space in the tiny, homely room.

He saw the fear in his charges’ eyes, and in Betsy’s blue ones that beseeched him to return to them.

Henry shook himself and removed his foot from the man’s jugular, giving him one last kick in the ribs for good measure. The man rolled over and moaned, no longer concerned about the money he paid.

*

Victor’s path through the house recalled a bull’s through a china shop as he barged into room after room. “REMY! LAD!” Women and men alike who encountered him in the corridor leapt out of the way, knowing it wouldn’t be wise to stop him. He was frothing with anger and adrenaline, sweating and tireless as he looked for the prince. 

“REMY!” His bellows bounced off the walls to no avail. He wondered why the boy wasn’t answering him, and that made his blood run cold. “REMY!”

He heard a low whimpering two doors down and decided that was the right place to start. Victor kicked open the door, surprised that it gave way so easily; someone hadn’t thought the occupant inside was worth the trouble of a lock? He peered down at the small boy you looked a few years younger than Remy, blond and cherubic, face red with tears. His heart went out to him, and he noticed that his hands were tied. The boy was huddled on the bed, and he cowered when he saw Victor.

“Easy now, lad,” he soothed in his rough voice. “Old Vic won’t hurt you. It’s all right.”

“You promise?”

“Aye. I promise.” Victor made heart-crossing motions with his finger over his chest. The boy sniffled and tried to sit up. Victor hurried over and ran his fingers over the knots of rope binding the boy’s wrists. He took out his knife, making him whimper at the sight of it, but Victor bade him to hold still. He neatly cut off the ropes and rubbed the small hands, which were slightly blue where the circulation was cut off. “Poor pup,” he muttered sympathetically, ruffling his hair. The boy automatically mopped his cheeks and mustered his courage before the giant.

“Are you gonna get Remy?” Victor’s eyes widened.

“You know where he is?”

“Uh-huh. He’s in the other room. That way.” Hope seized Victor, almost choking him. He gathered the boy up and took him from the room. As he reached the corridor, the odd troupe of children tramped down the stairs. Betsy and Henry stared at him oddly.

“Who on earth are you? Unhand that child,” Betsy snapped.

“Nay, missus. I’m not doing anything untoward with this lad, so just get that thought out of yer pretty head. Here. Take him.” He pushed him at her, and she gladly gathered him against her, where he clung for dear life, grateful for her softness and sweet scent. “I need to find Remy.”

“This isn’t the boy you’re looking for?”

“Nay, but he needs out of this disgraceful sty just as much. I’d love to wring the neck of whoever brought him here.”

“That’s been taken care of,” Betsy assured him calmly. Her eyes were flat and hard, and Victor winced.

“I’ll take your word for it.” 

“It’s that door,” Douglas mumbled, voice garbled by Betsy’s shoulder. His small hand pointed to the next, and Victor remembered his original focus. Without a word, the huntsmen banged on the door.

“We can get in there,” Bobby offered.

“I’m just giving whoever’s in there the chance to stop what they’re doing,” Victor told him. With that, he kicked the door in as nimbly as Henry had, not caring that the madam wouldn’t appreciate the considerable repairs she’d need to make once they had what they came for. Henry whistled, impressed, before he charged inside after Victor.

One man hovered over the bed, while the other crouched over the boy lying on it. Fury lanced through Victor when he saw that Remy was completely exposed. Both men jumped back from him as though he were poisonous in the face of Victor and Henry’s combined wrath.

Their retribution was savage and violent. Victor knocked the first man down and rained blow after blow against his face, enjoying the crunch of muscle and bone beneath his knuckles. Henry was no gentler but more efficient, opening his maw widely and snapping it around the man’s face, then snapping his head back and forth like a lion with its prey. The man screamed, and while he was still in shock, Henry dragged him from the room. Warren and Bobby leapt back out of the way as Henry threw the man over the banister and down the flight of stairs. Victor’s eyes were wild and the man’s blood flecked his face and coat, the crimson drops standing out in sharp contrast against his honey blond hair.

“You. Don’t. Touch. Him.” His voice was ragged and out of breath, and Victor was on the brink. “He’s INNOCENT. He’s BETTER THAN YOU.” His breath sawed in and out of his lungs, making his chest heave. Cold sweat had broken out over his face, making his ruddy skin gleam. The man gratefully passed out before Victor could punch him again. Hands shaking, Victor dropped him and backed off. The man’s blood leaked onto the shabby rug, and he turned to Remy.

The boy was trembling. His red-on-black eyes were flitting around the room, taking in the sight of so many faces crowding in the doorway, the broken man on the floor, and the huge man covered in blood. He was shivering from the cold in the room, trying to wrap himself up in the sheet to hide his nudity and shame.

“It’s all right, lad,” Victor murmured hesitantly. He inched forward, but he felt a pang of dread and grief when Remy backed up against the wall and held up his hand to stay Victor from coming closer. “I’m going to take you out of this place,” he promised. “No one can hurt you, lad.” Victor felt sick, knowing full well that the boy had already been hurt, and possibly used, and he cursed himself for not getting there sooner.

“Stay away,” Remy warned him. “Don’t touch me.”

“I gave you my word,” Victor reminded him gently as he tried to approach him again. “I wouldn’t harm a hair on your head. Ever.” Victor wondered why Remy looked confused. His movements were shaky and his eyes had an odd, glazed cast that he didn’t like.

“I don’t even know you,” Remy retorted. “Please, leave me alone. I need my clothes…”

“Where are they, lad?” Henry asked kindly. Remy’s eyes pinned Henry this time, and he stared in disbelief at the man who seemed like nothing of the sort.

Henry was tall, although not nearly as large as Victor, and his torso was just as broad and muscular. He wore peasant’s clothing of sturdy homespun and wool and stiff leather boots. But the most remarkable thing about Henry was his skin, which was covered in a thick layer of midnight blue fur. Shining claws appeared where fingernails should be, and his teeth were tiny, white and sharp.

Very human eyes stared back at Remy, and they were also dark blue, holding kindness in their depths. But he had heavy, grizzled brows, and his nose resembled a lion’s large snout, and his upper lip was separated at the palate, also like a cat’s. He had high cheekbones and a firm, square jaw. Long, indigo hair swept back from his face, thick and curling, and he clubbed it back neatly, much like Victor’s.

Remy pointed. “In there,” he said. Henry moved to the armoire, wisely avoiding getting too close to him, when he looked ready to come unhinged. Henry reached into the armoire and took the pile of plain looking garb, carefully tossing it onto the bed. Remy’s hand shot out for the tunic, snatching it up and tugging it over his head before anyone could even blink.

Henry was in awe of the boy’s eyes, having never seen any like them before. But he felt his fur stand on end again and wondered about the cause. Why was Henry suddenly… afraid? A strange sense of terror invaded him, seeping into his body in gradual trickles. He felt his heart pump and stomach twist and grew slightly dizzy. At the same time, he smelled the tang of terror and anxiety coming from the bed. The boy was still trembling. Victor was taking a different tack.

“Your father misses you,” Victor told him humbly. “And it’s my fault, lad.”

“Stay away from me!”

“It’s me, Vic!”

“I don’t know you! I’ve never met you before!”

“I’ve known you since you were a wee babe,” Victor argued, and Henry saw tears shining in the huntsman’s eyes. “I bounced you on my knee. Surely you remember me? I taught you how to ride Thistle.”

At the sound of the word “ride,” Remy whimpered. The other men threatened to ride him, and he wouldn’t let this one have such an opportunity. He finally regained his mobility, even though he didn’t have much of his strength back.

“He doesn’t remember you?” Henry asked, puzzled.

“Of course he does!” Victor insisted, annoyed. “I’ve known him all his life!” Victor moved toward the bed again. “Let me help you, lad!”

“STAY BACK!” Remy’s eyes were wide and wild, and he leapt up from the bed, not caring that he still didn’t have on his pants. The tunic covered his vitals, but barely. He balled up his fist and looked ready to swing on Victor. The huntsman looked stricken.

“Lad, it’s all right,” he repeated. “Here, you’re cold.” The urge to hold him, to comfort him the way he had in the woods once he’d returned to his own senses was strong, and Victor gave in to it. He caught Remy’s fists as the boy pummeled him, grasping his wrists to still them. Remy struggled, tears sparking in his eyes, and he bared his teeth at Victor.

“I WARNED YOU!”

“Remy-“

“I WARNED YOU!” Remy repeated, but Victor wouldn’t let him go. Remy’s skin was icy cold, and he couldn’t resist the automatic urge to pull him close to share the warmth of his bulk and heavy coat. He embraced him, not caring how hard the boy struggled to get away. For one brief moment, Victor caught his breath, overjoyed that Remy was safe, that he was in tangible contact with him. Remy was stunned at how familiar it was to be held by this man, how he recognized his scent and the planes of his chest, his body heat and the smell of leather and sweat. His mind was confused, not believing what his senses were telling him.

But there was something amiss. Remy also smelled the coppery stench of freshly shed blood, and he fought him again, remembering what he just saw.

Victor’s confusion was just as strong. Remy was frantic to get away from him, even though he’d intervened before things could get much, much worse; the bruise on the prince’s cheek was reason enough for him to want to kill those men all over again. But Victor loosened his grip on him incrementally, pulling back enough to stare down into his face. “Remy-“

A sickening, ripping sound cut him short, and his words died on his lips. Victor’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of the hunting knife he’d planned to give Remy on his birthday that now protruded from the left side of his gut, where the boy had stabbed him. “Lad,” Victor whispered, “what…?”

“No,” Remy moaned, covering his mouth with his hand. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean…”

“Aye,” Victor whispered, squeezing Remy’s shoulder to comfort him. “You did. But it’s not your fault. Nay. ‘Tisn’t your fault, lad. None of this is.” Victor shook his head, and he carefully covered Remy’s hand with his where it still gripped the pommel and relaxed his fingers. He hated how the boy’s hand trembled, hated the tears flowing down his cheeks and the broken look in his eyes.

Yet Victor felt relieved. A great burden of shame had been lifted from him in that he knew he deserved punishment for his part in Raven’s schemes and her cuckoldry of her husband. He’d never sleep another night knowing he’d put Remy in such grave danger, so it made sense to him that Remy’s hand was the one that dealt the blow. Henry rushed forward with a low growl of distress.

“Blast,” the beast swore under his breath.

*Victor.*

“Not your fault, lad.”

*Victor.* There was a sweet, light voice whispering in Victor’s ear. *I’m with you. Don’t give up, Victor.*

“I’ll never hurt you again, sweet…prince…” Victor’s eyes grew glazed and bleary as blood leaked thickly from his waist, darkening his heavy tunic and leathers.

“I didn’t mean it,” Remy insisted, horrified as Victor staggered and dropped to his knees. He reached forward and caught Victor under the armpits, but he wasn’t strong enough to support his weight as he sagged to the floor. “I didn’t mean it,” he repeated, beseeching Henry to understand.

“You didn’t mean it,” Henry assured him. “Get dressed. Let me have him, son.” Remy shook his head and his features crumpled. He now clung to the man who he’d fought so furiously to get away from, clutching him and weeping into Victor’s hair. He grew hysterical when Henry tried to pull his hands away and lift Victor’s bulk from him. Victor moaned in pain and distress, and the sounds in the room were growing more far away, difficult to hear over his own heartbeat. But he still felt relieved. He stared up into Remy’s face, surprised to see it hovering over him, as well as the odd, furry stranger who was watching him with dismay and worry.

“But I did this,” Remy insisted.

“Lad, you’re freezing, I insist that you listen to me and get dressed!” Henry snapped, knowing this wasn’t the time to coddle him over keeping him whole, physically. Bobby and Warren came over with his pants.

“Put them on, and hurry,” Warren urged, gently tugging his arm while Henry succeeded in foisting Victor away from him. Both boys wrestled him into his clothing, frustrated that he wouldn’t help them with the task. Warren held him protectively, trying to soothe him. “You’ll be all right. We’re taking you out of here.”

“I won’t be all right,” Remy argued miserably. Warren’s face reflected Remy’s heartbreak, and his wings rustled, unfolding and spreading to encompass the teen in their warmth. It was a reflexive action, and Warren actually felt the grief and anguish the prince projected, not realizing that he was absorbing his emotions and feeling them fully. Remy sagged against him, and Warren and Bobby felt relieved that he wasn’t fighting them anymore, nonplussed that he had probably mortally wounded a grown man an entire head taller than he was. They’d each escaped heinous circumstances, and as a result, had grown used to a different standard of right and wrong.

*

Victor couldn’t remember anything of how he ended up in a small, dark room, legs covered with heavy furs and blankets. His body throbbed with various discomforts, feet tingling from the return of heat from the blistering cold from the past two days of riding.

His side pulsed with searing, tearing pain that forced a hoarse cry from his lips. He panted with the effort to control another outburst. Fear gripped him as he groggily surveyed the chamber, unaware of whether he was a guest or prisoner. 

“Remy!” He realized that the prince wasn’t nearby and it petrified him.

“Hush,” a low, feminine voice urged him from the corner. Victor grunted with pain and tried to turn toward its source. Its owner obliged him by drawing closer, hovering over him, and Victor’s impression was one of awe. The woman hovering over him with a basin and several cloths was comely, elegantly tall and slender, with slanted, almond-shaped blue eyes full of concern. He recognized her from the Painted Lady, trying to place her name, but he remembered it had never been given to him.

“Remy,” he snapped. “Where’s the prince?” She scowled in confusion as she pulled over a chair and seated herself. 

“The prince?”

“Aye, Master Remy. I’m charged to protect him…” His explanation was interrupted by a spate of coughing.

“Easy, now,” she warned him. “You’ll pull at your stitches, and Henry will have to sew you up again. It took him bloody ages the first time. You’re going to feel weak until you get over losing so much blood. Your charge was quite distraught.”

“No…shit,” Victor groaned before he coughed again.

“That’s enough of that,” she ordered curtly, tutting. She dipped a cloth into the basin and swabbed down his cheeks and brow. She propped him more comfortably on the pillows and offered him a drink. Victor was pleased to find out that it was whisky. She only allowed him a couple of swallows as she continued to clean him up. Betsy daubed at the blotches of crusted on blood over his belly and chest. “You called him a prince.”

“Aye.”

“Of what region?”

“This one. And of the next twelve territories along the southern border.” She gasped.

“But…how?”

“He ran away,” Victor lied. Betsy narrowed her eyes at him and paused in her ablutions.

“How would he have ended up out this far from the palace? How is it that his majesty’s troops aren’t scouring the city for him?”

“It’s complicated,” he offered lamely.

“Nothing’s complicated to a telepath,” she informed him haughtily. Victor scowled and inched back from her once he grasped what that implied. She planted her palm in the center of his chest, holding him down as her other covered his brow, and Victor whimpered like a small child as she trespassed over the threshold of his mind.

“Betsy, what on earth are you doing?”

“Getting answers that our friend is reluctant to give me,” she hissed. “Don’t interrupt me, Henry.”

“He’s wounded!”

“He’ll get over it.”

“I just think you should know that I have a problem with this.”

“Duly noted. Go put the kettle on, Henry.”

Betsy ignored his grumbles as the burly feral retreated from the doorway, barely catching that a man was supposed to be master of his house, even if it was just a hovel, and that was the thanks he got for his handiwork with his needles. Betsy waded through Victor’s thoughts, sifting through memories as they unfolded to her one by one. Her journey was troublesome, as the huntsman had a naturally defensive and combative nature. Nasty beasties bared their teeth at her in warning, but she shooed them off with a stamp of her foot.

“You’ll make it easier on yourself if you cooperate,” Betsy called out.

“You could be more polite,” tinkled a voice cheerfully.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Cerebra. A friend of Victor’s.”

“All right. That’s a good beginning, surely, but tell me then, darling, WHAT are you?”

“The unfathomable and unexplainable. But I mean well.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better that you’re a ghost, and that you’re talking to me?”

“If such things make you feel better, it would certainly help me, Betsy.”

“You know my name.”

“I know all.”

“Why are you here?”

“I already know why you’re here, but mine is not the same purpose. I’m here on borrowed time. My mistress wouldn’t approve.”

“Mistress?”

“She possesses the vessel that hosts my spirit. So long as the vessel is intact, my spirit’s hold in this world is secure, and I may continue to roam in immaterial form.” She eyed Betsy with envy. “I prefer your way. I wish I had a body that I could astrally project from like you. I miss being of the flesh.”

“It has its drawbacks.”

“So I see. Victor’s in a state. Stubborn, foolish man. He’s ruled by the flesh, that one is.”

“Who is he?”

“The master huntsman of His Royal Majesty, King Jean-Luc Lebeau the Benevolent. He’s also one of the king’s bodyguards. He’s a close family confidante and he’s quite fond of the prince.”

“Remy?”

“Yes.”

“What is it that Victor wants to hide so badly? Why isn’t the king or someone of his household here in the village investigating his son’s whereabouts?”

“Because the king labors under a mantle of grief and loss. He believes his son was killed.”

“Damnation!”

“At first, it was part of a plot, but then fate intervened. Take my hand.” Cerebra reached for Betsy, and some of her radiance enveloped her spirit form, too, illuminating her and lighting the way through the corridors of Victor’s consciousness. They walked together through various scenes of his experiences as seen through Cerebra’s eyes, even since she came into Raven’s possession. Betsy felt a strange, almost voyeuristic thrill in the things Cerebra was privy to, not only having a psychic gift, but one that allowed her to traverse a completely different reality. She witnessed Victor’s experiences in the royal household, felt the man’s pride in his position and the trust the king bestowed on him. She saw his interactions with the staff and royal family, and Betsy smiled at his recollections of the infant, and then the toddler that she recognized as a much younger Remy. 

“He’s adorable,” Betsy mused.

“Aye. He’s lovely. Little heartbreaker.”

Betsy herself felt heartbroken as she watched Jean-Luc grieving over his dead wife. The scenes kept shifting, and Betsy recognized the second queen from brief visits she’d made through town for supplies. “Vain thing,” Betsy tsked.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Hold on.” Betsy looked disgusted. “They were having an affair?”

“They’ve gotten away with it this long, but there are different stakes now. Master Remy found out what was going on.”

“How horrible.”

“It’s an ugly shame. Mistress found out that he knew, and she schemed for an end to the threat that he posed, holding that knowledge over her head.”

“But, he’s innocent! He’s a CHILD!”

“He’s a liability. Remy is a young man. He will inherit the throne from his father and eventually choose a new queen for himself during Raven’s lifetime. And he knows that she has been unfaithful, and that she will eventually hurt his father. Children have excellent instincts.”

Betsy watched silently as the rest of the events of a fortnight unfolded before her, and by the time she broke her connection with Victor, she was quietly weeping. Victor looked shaken and stunned.

“What did you DO?”

“Nay, good sir. The question is, what did YOU do.” She rose from his bedside and wiped her hands on her skirt, as though to cleanse herself of his sins. “I’ll send Henry in directly, to dose you with something for the pain." She ignored his raspy demand to come back and gently shut the door.

When she reached the kitchen, she was glad to find Henry its only occupant. “Are the children asleep?”

“Aye. I wrestled a book away from Warren and just barely kept him from setting his bed on fire with the lantern; he was trying to read under the covers.”

“Brat. He loves to push limits, that one.”

“He’s not the only one in this house that hates limits.” He eyed her accusingly, and a smile toyed with the corner of her mouth. “What did you find out about the boy?”

“That he’s much more than that. Henry, Victor isn’t just the boy’s guardian. He’s a huntsman.”

“That explains a lot about him, but for whom?” Henry moved to the kettle and pulled it away from the flame when it whistled shrilly.

“Jean-Luc the Benevolent.” Betsy winced apologetically when Henry dropped the kettle in surprise, splashing scalding water over the legs of his trousers. He hissed and pranced with the effort not to splash himself again and clanked the kettle down on the table. “You’ll wake them all,” she reminded him gently.

“So you’re telling me that Remy is Prince Remy?”

“Aye. I’m telling you true.” Henry bowed his face into his palm and sighed heavily, reeling.

“We have a kidnapped prince in our home, wearing castoffs and sleeping on a cot.”

“That’s about right, Henry.”

“No. Everything about that is just…WRONG, Betsy.”

“He’s had a sheltered life. I’ve heard rumor about him before, but never met anyone who’s actually laid eyes on him, Henry. Look at his eyes. If he’d had a more public life, I’d think he’d have been more quickly recognized, and word would have gotten back to his majesty by now.”

For the first time in his life, Henry truly had no answers. None.

“The king has to be looking for him!”

“He did. He gave up when he learned that his son was dead.”

Henry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He gave up on the kettle, padded silently over to the nearest wall, and slowly, quietly banged his head against it.


	8. Seven Pretty Mutants, All in a Row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor departs, leaving Remy to his new beginning and new family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I thank anyone who’s still sticking with this story. I’ve been so blocked.
> 
> There will be inconsistencies. I had long lags between chapter uploads, and there are bits that either repeat themselves or conflict with chapters prior. Wish I had a beta, but there you go. This may soon get a revision.

Summary: Victor departs, leaving Remy to his new beginning and new family.

Author’s Note: I thank anyone who’s still sticking with this story. I’ve been so blocked.

An hour past daybreak, Victor was gone from the cottage; there was no sign of him or Brutus, and Cerebra seemed to have left with him. Her psychic signature was gone, and Betsy had no idea of where else to look for her. She sighed as she looked in on Remy, currently ensconced in the larger of the two boys’ rooms, in the cot across from Warren’s hammock.

She smiled fondly at Warren and the way he curled himself, creating a “nest” around his body with his broad white wings. He looked the epitome of an angel, innocent and breathtaking in sleep, but he had just as much of a proclivity towards mischief as Bobby did, and the two of them frequently played pranks on Sam, their favorite victim.

From what Henry could tell, Remy was roughly the same age as Warren, too, and if anyone could draw him out and relate to him, he could. Remy had been hysterical when they brought him home, under cover of Ororo’s fog. Warren and Ororo each offered to fly him, but Henry was adamant that he would be less unsettled if he took him on horseback. He strong-armed the wiry youth onto the horse and held him in front of him, and Remy relaxed slightly at the feel of Henry’s warm bulk at his back. His tears were frozen on his cheeks and he was weak from hunger.

Betsy saw to Victor’s needs, riding in front of him on Brutus, as she’d decided he wasn’t fit to handle the temperamental horse’s reins. She calmed the beast’s fears with a thought, and he accepted her touch, nuzzling her hands before she carefully mounted him. Victor slipped into a stupor from blood loss, and he couldn’t appreciate his “predicament” of sharing his steed with a beautiful woman.

She goaded Brutus into a punishing gallop that he seemed to enjoy, beating Henry home by nearly a half an hour. She worked quickly to get Victor into bed and his horse into their meager stable, keeping him out of Remy’s sight by the time Henry ushered him inside.

*

Flashback:

He fought the large, blue-furred man with the deep voice that was underscored by a light growl. He spoke the king’s English with a lilt, but it was odd to hear words of any kind coming from the almost feline mouth. Henry watched him with dismay and worry as Remy held him back at arm’s length, wild-eyed and terrified.

“You’re safe now.”

“Nay!” Remy insisted. “Y-you leave m-me alone! I don’t belong here! Take me home!”

“We don’t know where home is for you, young man,” Henry reminded him gently. “And until we know, this is it.” Remy’s eyes widened, and he shook his head emphatically.

“You can’t keep me here! I won’t stay!”

“Where will you go?” Betsy inquired. “You’re freezing. You have no coat or boots. You look ready to pass out.”

“I don’t care,” Remy argued, but his resistance was flagging. He swayed on his feet, but when Henry moved forward to help him, the boy grasped the fireplace poker and brandished it over his head.

“We care,” Henry sighed. “It’s late. You’ve been through an ordeal.”

“I don’t know you! I can’t trust you! You’ll hurt me and try…try to make me…”

“No. We won’t make you do anything like that awful woman forced you to do,” Betsy said, her voice almost a scold. Anger still bubbled in her heart, and she felt little regret over the way she’d had to dispose of Madelyne. Remy was so young and vulnerable, so much like Warren and Sam, and the things he’d seen were no less traumatizing. “Henry said you’re safe here, and he meant it.”

“Tell us your name, lad.” Henry could have sworn Victor had called him Remy…hadn’t he used a title, too? Master? It puzzled him. The boy’s clothes were soiled and torn, but they were made of rich, expensive fabrics that were much finer than his own.

“I…I don’t know,” Remy stammered. “I don’t know!” His voice sounded panicked, and his grip on the poker wavered; he wasn’t holding it as high, but he still held out a hand in warning to Henry. “I don’t know where my home is! I want my papa!”

“What’s his name, child?” Betsy asked politely. Her blue eyes were sincere, but something about her was odd to Remy. Her hair…it was an unusual shade of…violet? Were his eyes playing tricks on him?

“I don’t remember,” Remy admitted, and his voice broke.

“It’s all right,” Betsy soothed. She held out her hand. “Calm down. You’re among friends.”

“I…I don’t have any friends,” he told her. Remy didn’t realize how true it was; he had no peers his own age whose company he enjoyed at all. The children of his father’s contacts were spoiled, haughty, and condescending, whereas the castle’s staff were like a surrogate family, and they loved him from the moment of his birth.

“Och,” Rahne tsked. She hurried forward, not caring about the poker. She closed in on him and tugged at his sleeve. “I’ll be your friend.” Remy’s eyes searched her face, and he scowled at the outfit she wore.

“I don’t like your dress,” he muttered.

“Nay. Neither do I,” Henry chimed in. “It’s entirely unsuitable for a ten-year-old girl.”

“I’ll be eleven next spring,” Rahne pouted. That was a vague guesstimate at best; Rahne was too young to know her own birthday when she was abandoned. Henry gave each child a birthday according to the day that he found them, with the exception of Sam, who already knew his.

“C’mon, Rahney,” Dani encouraged, gesturing for her to come with her. “Let’s get you a bath.”

“I don’t want a bath,” she whined petulantly, but she still hadn’t shaken off the chill, and she’d been in her human form so long that she’d had the chance to let her lupine metabolism and thick fur warm her. “So will you stay with us?” she said, pressing Remy for an answer. “Please? You and Dougie both can stay.”

“Dougie?” Betsy murmured.

“Our other houseguest,” Henry said, gesturing to the small blond who was slumbering in Sam’s lap in the well-used pine rocking chair beside the fireplace. Betsy sighed.

“Another mouth to feed.”

“Not unless we find his family,” Henry corrected her.

“What about mine?” Remy accused. “You keep saying you’ll help me!”

“First, put the poker down,” Betsy suggested. “Put it down, now.”

He obeyed, ashamed, setting it carefully in the corner. He stared at his feet and folded his arms across his middle protectively. When she touched his arm, he flinched, and it broke her heart.

“Remy? Would you sit with me, please?” She led him to another chair beside the modest dining table. He lowered himself into it and only realized then how exhausted he was. His stomach was caving in from hunger, and he watched her warily as she reached for his hand. Her grip was gentle and warm. “I need your permission.”

“For what?”

“I need you to tell me what you remember of how you ended up at Shaw’s.” Remy recoiled, attempting to shake off her grip.

“I don’t know!”

“Please, child, don’t worry, it’s for your own good! Help me to help you!”

“We might have to take a different tack,” Henry decided gruffly. He walked up behind Remy and caught him in a bear hug, restraining his arms. Remy looked terrified again, hating the confinement and the look of pity in Betsy’s eyes. “Betsy, go ahead. And be gentle.”

“As a new kitten, Henry.” She lightly brushed his forehead with her fingertips, and her voice was a soft, hushed murmur. “That’s it…relax, child. I just want to visit for a minute.”

“What…are…” Remy’s voice tapered off, and his eyes grew glassy and drowsy as she subdued him, altering the serotonin levels in his brain. Henry felt the boy grow limp in his embrace, and he gathered him against him as he passed out. Henry carried him to a battered, overstuffed chair while Betsy maintained her psychic connection to him, and Henry cradled him in his lap while she read him.

“Much nicer,” she mused. “Goodness, he’s a lanky one, just like Sam.” Remy’s legs dangled over the arm of the chair and his soft, tangled hair tickled Henry’s neck. He wrinkled his nose at the various scents on Remy’s skin and clothing, disgusted at the faint aroma of tobacco and alcohol that the men holding him no doubt enjoyed before they used him. “Will you examine him, Henry?”

“You read my mind. Yes, but not now.”

“That’s fine. Everything’s such a blur,” she muttered. “He was scarred. There are memories he’s fighting me for, trying to lock them away.”

“Anything that might help us to identify him?”

“Give me a few moments.”

The snatches of memory that she could sift through the shadows in his mind were just glimpses. Betsy saw faces materialize before her and felt the boy’s emotions that were tied to each one. She recognized his father, and she was surprised to see him in rich garb, wearing a tunic with a royal seal. The man had his son’s handsome features but not his otherworldly eyes. He looked proud but not haughty; his bearing was dignified, and his face was kind. Betsy smiled to herself, wondering what kind of life the boy led.

The next face was just as kind and loving, but one Betsy never would have expected. The woman’s face was beautiful, with chocolate brown skin and soft, full lips. There was something eerily familiar about her, and Betsy felt Remy’s calm, loving regard of this woman, bordering on worship. Surely she wasn’t his mother? Perhaps someone whom he respected as such? The woman was reading a book in his memory, perhaps a fairy tale? Betsy also saw something in the background of the memory, sitting up on a shelf. It looked like a doll. Odd item to have in a boy’s chamber, she wondered.

She recognized Victor in his thoughts, and this time, the memories were muddled and conflictive. In some, Remy reacted with pleasure and trust; the next moment, Remy broadcasted unbridled fear. It made sense; Rahne’s transmissions to Dani painted a different picture of Victor as someone who was ready to take his life, because he was supposedly coerced. Betsy fumed again that a grown man could take it upon himself to frighten a young boy, let alone harm him.

Betsy froze and felt her heart pound at the sight of an enraged, desperate Victor wielding a knife. She shared Remy’s terror and fought to soothe him, but Remy was fighting her, trying to shake himself free of her influence and intrusion.

Her body jerked and she reeled back. Warren moved forward to catch her, supporting her. Remy had kicked her out of his mind. Betsy’s breathing was harsh, and she was sweating.

“Goodness,” she muttered. “Amazing, troubled child…”

“What did you see?”

“Still too little. And he’d fighting me. I might have to try again, once he’s had a chance to accept me.”

“He needs rest,” Henry grumbled. “And my legs are going numb. Get this young man to bed.” He rose with difficulty and carried Remy from the main room, careful not to jar him. Remy moaned in his sleep as he was laid down on the cot and covered with a heavy fur. Henry left him reluctantly, and the boy’s scent still infused his fur, marking him. Warren followed Henry into his room, hovering over their guest. He knelt beside him and stroked a lock of his tangled chestnut hair.

“It’s like a girl’s,” Warren murmured thoughtfully.

“Leave him alone for now.”

“Doesn’t he need another blanket?” Warren inquired helpfully.

“We’ll find him one, but his cheeks are flushed,” Henry pointed out. That worried him.

While Henry saw to Remy’s needs, Betsy began to settle the other children for the night. Rahne was given a brief, perfunctory bath, and the homely, inappropriate red dress was tossed into the grate. Dani watched the black lace smolder as it caught fire, and she poked it more deeply into the flames. She didn’t like it on Rahne, either. Rahne always wore simple clothes, brown or green dresses made of muslin or heavy wool, and she occasionally borrowed Bobby’s outgrown trousers whenever they went tramping about in the brush. Rahne was a natural tomboy, and her brutally short hair suited her well, too.

“Can I have some tea?” Rahne asked.

“Not now.”

“I’m hungry,” Rahne complained.

“Some bread, then, and a little milk.” Betsy regretted that she hadn’t had the chance to feed Remy before they put him to bed, but he was so tired and weak. Rahne and Dani rushed into the kitchen and found the bread covered with a tea towel in the pantry, each of them helping themselves to thick slices. Sam and Bobby followed suit before Betsy shooed them off to their respective rooms.

The cottage was eclectic, an odd mishmash of remnants, secondhand goods, and added on rooms. The rooms were well-insulated with thick curtains and reinforced shutters, and there were thick rugs and furs on the floors. There were several bookshelves and a large table in the main room with several maps and a large, ornate globe. There were two ottomans, two rockers, and a wide bench seat, barely enough to seat all of them comfortably; what furniture they didn’t buy secondhand or find, Henry built with his own work-roughened hands. A short stool was lying by his workbench out in the stable, only needing a third peg.

Betsy made Warren give her back the book that he tried to sneak into bed with him. He grinned at her sheepishly, then huffed in disappointment when she let him know she wasn’t fooling. She shushed Sam and Bobby sternly when they continued to whisper in the dark, and she did the same when she went into the room she shared with all three girls. Ororo was dutifully combing and braiding her fall of hair, and she was already dressed in her nightgown and robe. Her blue eyes were pensive.

“Is he going to be all right?” she inquired.

“Is he going to stay?” Rahne added eagerly.

“I don’t know. And again, I don’t know. We need to find his family.” What was more, they needed to know if his home was a haven to him, or a bigger danger than the brothel they stole him from.

*

 

Victor made his way back to the castle, and he was greeted by two of Jean-Luc’s footmen at the stable. They rushed toward him and gasped when they noticed what sorry shape he was in.

“Robbers,” he grunted by way of explanation. He waved them away when they tried to help him, and he scolded them that it would help him more if they would unsaddle Brutus and curry him, not to mention feed him. Brutus whickered at him indignantly, as if to accuse him of poor treatment over the past two days.

He entered the servants’ door and Emily, the scullery girl, stopped him in the kitchen. She was aghast at the sight of his bloodied, torn tunic and the thick bandages wrapped around his waist, visible when he removed his coat. “Victor! Good heavens!”

“Wish that was where I came back from, lass,” he admitted wryly. “Have we any rum?”

“Nay. Just some brandy. But you need food, and a doctor to look at your wound –“ He held up his hand and growled defiantly, stopping her lather.

“I must report to my king.” She nodded numbly and took his soiled coat, promising she’d take it to the castle’s laundress to be cleaned. Victor took the brandy and poured himself a stiff finger of it, then tossed it back, hardly tasting it. It burned on its way down, warming him immediately, and he needed the courage it gave him to explain to Jean-Luc that he had found no trace of his son, after all.

It was the only solution. If Jean-Luc knew that Remy was alive, he would send his troops out to search for him. If Remy returned to the palace, Raven would snare him again, and she would know Victor betrayed her confidence by defying her. Remy would once again become her victim in her adulterous schemes and her mad desire for power.

Victor knew that concealing Remy’s whereabouts, and even letting his memory loss persist was the only way to protect him. It broke his heart to know he wouldn’t likely see the boy again, and that his father would be left to grieve. Victor’s part in this deception shamed him and would follow him into the grave.

 

When he entered Jean-Luc’s chamber, his grim face told the king all that he needed to hear. Jean-Luc flew into a rage, hurling aside the marble topped table, flinging random objects at his huntsman and charging at him, savagely beating and kicking him wherever his boots lit. His cries and curses were guttural and hoarse, booming through the corridor. His voice sent his servants running to separate them, but Victor merely knelt, nearly prostrate, as his king punished him for circumstances that he couldn’t control or reverse. Jean-Luc took out his anger and anguish upon him, beating him until Victor mercifully blacked out.

Raven watched silently from the doorway, restraining the urge to smile. She feigned concern along with the rest of the staff, when she should have been weeping. N’Dare wept in her stead, devastated. She clutched the small rag doll to her breast, burying her nose in it to breathe in the last of Remy’s scent.

*

Jonathan read the scroll that his messenger delivered to his chamber and scowled. His son watched him with concern. “What’s wrong, Father?”

“Something horrible has happened. Our neighbor to the west has lost his son.”

“Jean-Luc?” His son’s expression mirrored his, and Jonathan silently thanked his father in heaven that he didn’t stand in the other king’s shoes. Jonathan loved his son dearly, valuing no possession more highly than the child of his sainted wife’s womb.

“Aye. His courier sent word that the funeral will be held two days from now.”

“Damnation,” his son muttered bitterly. “How old was he?”

“A mere babe. Thirteen, and he just passed his birthday.”

“How did he die? Did he have the scarlet fever, or typhoid?”

“Nay. He was killed while he was out on a hunt.”

“How on earth did that happen, Father? He was a young prince; surely he would have been accompanied by the king’s stable, or his huntsmen, or bodyguards! This is madness!”

“Aye. It boggles my mind.” Jonathan’s eyes looked distant as he stared at a map of his realm and the three surrounding territories. “This was where the boy was attacked.”

“Attacked?”

“Sounded like he was mauled by wolves.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. If he’d been in the company of adults, they shouldn’t have been able to touch him.”

“The boy went out alone.”

“Madness!”

“Stranger still, son, is that he left the palace during his celebration. Jean-Luc’s second queen threw him a grand dinner. I was overseas, and I received our household’s invitation too late. Now I regret it.”

His son crossed the chamber in three swift strides and enveloped him, clapping him on the back. “There was nothing we could do, Father.”

“It would have been nice,” Jonathan mused, “if there were two more pairs of eyes looking after the boy. Had it been my son, I never would have let him out of my sight.” Jonathan pulled back from James and clasped the scruff of his neck, giving it a hearty pat. 

“You had eyes in the back of your head when I was thirteen, Father.”

“I needed them, by God. You were a demon.”

*

 

James Logan Howlett, heir to His Majesty, King Jonathan the Truthful, was his father’s only son and preferred his own company to anyone else’s. Logan, as he was also known about the palace, was a brusque man who didn’t suffer fools or liars gladly. Logan loved and respected his father, but they were often at odds when it came to Logan’s continued bachelorhood. Logan’s preferences were somewhat flexible, and he would accept love in whatever gender that knocked on his door, but Jonathan wished for a grandchild to bounce on his knee.

James was a compact, wiry man whose chest was as broad as a tree trunk. He was powerfully built, despite his lack of height, and he had rough-hewn good looks that made women whisper and sigh when he attended court. Some of them found him intimidating when they took the time to look into his hard, canny blue eyes that were dark as midnight. His hair was black and glossy as raven’s wings, and it was always windswept and unruly, as though he’d just come in from a brisk ride or a long hunt. Usually, he had.

His hands were calloused from handling swords, bows and other weaponry after his father trained him with his knights. James was skilled at hunting and trapping, and he loathed sitting idly in the parlor with boring houseguests or listening to the children of his father’s acquaintances try their hand at singing or playing the piano as part of the after dinner entertainment. They were often shrill or off-key, banging away at the keys with little skill or regard for his eardrums. Logan enjoyed children, certainly, but not watching them be spoiled or overindulged, developing their parents’ gossiping, spiteful habits and moving on to adultery and drunkenness when they reached adulthood.

James also enjoyed artwork, and he kept a small chest that held his sketchbooks and pencils and inks in a drawer beside his bed. He was very skilled, each line accurate and true no matter what subject he chose. James drew nesting birds and wildflowers, stable hands napping among the hay bales or the scullery girls playing cards with the footmen, knights practicing their attacks in the courtyard, and brooding wolves in the brush. James was well read, and the only room of the house he preferred to spend any time in was the royal library. He blew a cloud of pipe smoke every night after dinner, poring over captain’s journals, biographies, art history tomes and adventure novels. He was well versed in folklore and old legends, enjoying the ones that reached his ears from the villagers when he visited the town with the tax collector to receive the king’s tribute.

The death of the young prince shook him and robbed him of sleep that night. None of it made sense. How could a palace lose track of the king’s only heir, on what should have been his most special day? Logan pondered it well into the night. He knew Jean-Luc was grieving, but he was willing to risk a few questions, if the man would indulge him.

Pieces of the puzzle were missing. That gnawed at him.

 

*

Raven brushed her blonde tresses and contemplated her reflection. Then she addressed the face that stared down from the frame.

“You’ve been too quiet lately, Mirror.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be seen than heard, Mistress. At least it is in my case.”

“You’re decent enough company,” Raven sniffed, “for an inanimate object.”

“You’re too generous with your praise, Mistress.”

“I’m in a good mood. Can’t you tell? Don’t I look radiant?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Tell me…am I the fairest in the land?”

“You’re just and benevolent, Mistress,” Cerebra lied, offering her a saccharine little smile. Raven tsked, then shook her brush at her.

“You know what I meant. Am I the most beautiful creature in the realm?” Raven smiled expectantly, and she ran her fingertips down her neck, admiring how swanlike it was, how creamy her skin was. She was perfection…

“Nay.”

Raven snapped to attention. Cerebra realized her error and was struck by fear.

“WHAT?”

“I’m, er, sorry, Mistress…you see, I misheard you,” Cerebra sputtered. “I, er, thought you asked me if you were, um…”

“If I was WHAT?” Raven’s cheeks were florid, and her eyes flashed a sinister yellow in her pique.

“Um…the most…blue-tiful. Aye, that was it. Silly me. My mind…wandered?” Cerebra knew it was an even bigger, more shameful slip of the tongue than her first one, and Raven hardly looked pacified.

“Am I BORING you, Mirror?”

“Never! Not at all! You’re the most stimulating company, Mistress!”

“And the most beautiful,” Raven pressed. Cerebra’s golden head nodded atop the frame, and her expression was fawning and contrite.

“You’re the most beautiful creature in the realm, Mistress. Without a doubt.”

Cerebra hated herself for the lie. The lost prince was the most beautiful being in creation, far outstripping his stepmother, but she could never know that, or it would mean his life.

 

*

Remy tore ravenously into the loaf of bread, cramming hunks of it into his mouth. Betsy ladled stew into his bowl, chiding him that it was too hot. He contented himself with the bread and milk, scarcely taking time to breathe between bites.

“His appetite hasn’t suffered,” she mused to Henry. He chuckled under his breath, and the rest of the children watched him curiously, also amused.

“Doesn’t he have any manners?” Rahne whispered to Dani.

“Maybe when he isn’t so hungry,” Dani decided, but her dark eyes shone with laughter. The nervous pall lifted from the cottage once Remy got over his hysteria. Waking up in the cottage instead of the brothel made a huge difference, and the sparely furnished bedroom was comfortable and warm.

He awoke just before dawn, and the first thing he noticed was the large hammock. There was too little light for him to see clearly, and he fumbled in the dark as he rose from the cot. He almost kicked over an iron lantern, and he felt around the table he bumped into for a box of matches. He lit the kerosene wick and held out the lantern, surveying the room. He turned slowly to face the hammock, and he gasped at the sight of a young boy who appeared to be nestled in piles of pure, brilliant white feathers.

His face was perfect, his features were patrician and exquisitely sculpted. His hair was golden blond and slightly wavy, and it was tousled in sleep. The boy smacked his lips and turned himself slightly, stretching his arm up over his head in response to the faint light in the room. Remy quickly set down the lantern and crept closer, in awe of him.

He searched his memory of the past two days, and he recognized him from the Painted Lady as one of the strange band of misfits who came to his rescue. Remy didn’t remember ever getting his name, but he remembered his face.

Cerulean blue eyes snapped open, then widened in surprise. “Shit!” Warren hissed. He bolted upright, and the momentum flipped the hammock, spinning it over and upending it. He fell out onto the floor with a thump.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” Remy muttered, reaching out to help him, then thinking better of it. Warren’s wings rustled at him indignantly as he rose, dusting himself off.

“What’re you hovering over me for? You woke me up.”

“I couldn’t help it. I don’t know where I am.”

“Oh. I guess you don’t. You’re in my room,” Warren offered, yawning. His chest was bare, and he wore his daytime trousers to bed, with no slippers or stockings on his long, narrow feet. “Warren.” He held out his hand. Remy reached out hesitantly. “I don’t bite.”

“Okay.” Remy grasped his hand in greeting, and the other boy’s hand was warm, his grip strong. He smiled at Remy impishly.

“Your hair’s almost as long as Ororo’s. I’ve never seen a boy with so much before.”

“So?” Remy challenged, pulling from his grip and backing up a step. He looked irritated, but Warren watched him in admiration. His voice tended to crack when he got upset, and he had a faint accent that he couldn’t pin down. Warren picked up the lantern and held it up, studying him more closely without asking permission.

“It’s nice,” Warren husked. He reached out, entranced, and pulled a lock of it over Remy’s shoulder, rubbing it between his finger and thumb to feel its silky texture. 

“Do you always just touch people whenever you feel like it?”

“No.” Warren was still fascinated by his hair, and by his unique eyes. “Where did you get those red eyes from?”

“Where did you get your wings from?” Remy pointed out, nodding to them.

“I’ve just always had them.”

“Mind letting go of my hair?”

“You don’t have to be so testy.” Warren let go of it reluctantly, and his voice held rancor at the rebuff.

“It’s not like I just walked up to you and grabbed your wings,” Remy told lied. He’d done just that, just to see if they were real, or as downy and soft as they looked. They were.

“As long as you don’t pull my feathers out, it’s okay,” Warren shrugged. With that, he took Remy’s hand and pulled him closer, until they stood mere inches apart. Warren rustled his wings, extending them fully, and then he folded Remy into their span, nudging him with them in invitation. “Touch them. I don’t care.” Remy felt heat rise into his cheeks, hating the tingle of embarrassment that washed over him when Warren quirked the corner of his mouth.

He touched them, sliding his palm along the grain of the lofty layers of feathers. He turned his hand and let the backs of his knuckles smooth over them, and Warren snickered, stirring him from his trance. “That tickles when you do it.” A flutter of pleasure bloomed in Warren’s gut, however, at the reverent look on Remy’s face, or the way he stroked his feathers again, enjoying the liberty.

“You’re… weird,” Remy confessed.

“You, too.”

*

Remy was hesitant about getting to know the occupants of the cottage, feeling out of place and lonely, knowing he didn’t belong there. Warren was helpful enough, even though he occasionally grew frustrated with his teasing sense of humor, but he still wasn’t as annoying as Bobby, who had a proclivity for pranks, including dropping ice chips down everyone’s collars when they turned around or freezing their fresh cups of tea before they could drink it.

“Bobby! You DOPE!” Dani cried as she upended her cup in disbelief, watching the frozen beverage slide out onto the table. She picked up the solid block of Earl Grey and threw it at him, earning a sound scolding from Betsy.

“That’s enough of that! Stop it, Dani! Bobby, pour her another cup, or I’ll tan your hide!”

“No, you won’t,” he argued sassily.

“I’ll give you nightmares for a month, then,” she amended, and her blue eyes were deadly serious. Bobby swallowed and ducked his head before he took up Dani’s cup and filled it with fresh tea from the pot. Dani longed to stick her tongue out at him, but Betsy was watching. “Clean up the tea you threw away.” Dani grumbled as she complied.

“Grump,” Bobby hissed at her.

“Dope,” she repeated on a mutter.

“They always like that?” Remy asked Sam.

“Yup.” The tall boy inhaled his bowl of porridge and reached for an apple. Remy was appalled at his seeming lack of manners. His own grip on his utensils was diligent and proper, but it had a lot to do with the fact that he wasn’t so hungry that the insides of his stomach weren’t sticking together, anymore, either.

Sam was probably the most laid-back of the children in the cottage. He generally did what he was told and frequently broke up arguments among his foster siblings, even though he was only Warren’s age. The lanky boy was awkward and frequently clumsy, not always watching where he was going or merely tripping over his own feet. Efforts on Betsy’s part to work on his grace had been futile, but he was a good-natured boy, despite his circumstances.

He also coped with his growing pains by sleeping incessantly. Sam did his fair portion of the chores, but in-between, he napped wherever he flopped. He was always the first to bed and the last to rise, and his snores were loud and shameless. It didn’t help matters that he also talked in his sleep, and Bobby slept with balls of sheep’s wool wadded up in his ears to preserve the peace, since he was Sam’s roommate. Sam wasn’t a prankster like Bobby, but the one person who he seemed to argue with the most was Dani. Her occasionally quick temper and stubbornness only shelved themselves for Rahne, the youngest of the lot.

Sam looked Remy over, unabashed. “Why ya like wearin’ yer hair so long? Ya look like Dani and Ororo.”

“No, I don’t!” Remy snapped.

“Ya oughta let Ororo make pigtails out of it,” Sam suggested.

“I’m a man. Pigtails are for girls,” Remy snorted.

“You’re pretty enough to be a girl,” Dani told him impishly as she mopped up the last of the tea with a small towel. Mischief twinkled in her dark eyes.

“I am not!” Remy snapped, but the corners of his mouth wanted to smile. Dani snickered and hustled off to the kitchen.

“Boys aren’t pretty, they’re handsome,” Rahne interjected, peeking up from her reading primer. Betsy poked her to make her pay attention to her lessons, and Rahne ducked her head back into her grammar, but her green eyes peeked up at Remy again, and she smiled shyly at him. At least someone was on his side, Remy mused. There was such a physical contrast between the two girls, but they really were close as sisters. Dani was tall and bony for her age, only a couple of inches shorter than Sam, and she was just as tough as the boys sharing the cottage, after a half a lifetime of playing just as rough. She loved it.

Remy found out over time that Rahne and Dani both loved hunting more than gathering or other domestic duties around the house. Sam was most content when he could help Henry make improvements around the cottage or build new furniture, or curry their two horses. Warren enjoyed the hunt but preferred fishing or trapping small game, something he could do easily from the sky. He was also the most scholarly, and quiet only when he had his nose in a book. The rest of the time, he had a jovial, teasing sense of humor and he was a bit of a flirt. Remy began to realize that no one he encountered was spared from it, and often, few were immune.

Henry stopped by the table to pour himself a cup of tea. He grunted briefly and reached out with one fuzzy paw, tipping Remy’s chin up to the light. “That bruise is purpling nicely. It’ll be gone in a couple of days.”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“If those men had done worse, I wouldn’t have used much in the way of self-restraint, lad.” Henry ruffled Remy’s hair fondly, and he was glad to see their guest wasn’t shrinking back from his touch.

Henry wasn’t expecting the young prince to reach for him before he could fully withdraw his hand. Remy caught it and carefully turned it over, examining it, stroking Henry’s fingers. He studied his thickly padded palms and bulging knuckles, his nails that resembled flat, shining claws. Henry was disconcerted at first, and he huffed a laugh to hide his embarrassment. “Do they meet with your approval?” Remy looked up from his intent study into Henry’s amused blue eyes and blushed. He released him quickly. “It’s all right.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he murmured as he turned his attention back to his cooling porridge.

“Curious, I think, not impolite, lad. It’s all right.” He patted Remy’s shoulder and went back to his tea and book by the fire. He was still amused by Remy’s curiosity, which was far preferable to his previous fear. Henry was glad he seemed to accept all of their various differences. What intrigued him, though, was the burning question: Remy was “different,” too, but HOW different? He had unique eyes, certainly like none Henry had ever seen. But there was something else about him that Henry couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Remy didn’t react to emotions in the typical way. If Warren was angry about something, it was usually Bobby’s fault, and Bobby took amusement in getting a rise out of him. Or if Dani said something to Rahne to embarrass her, Rahne blushed, but Dani would respond with contrition and a grudging apology. 

Not Remy.

Remy shared the feelings of whomever was closest; Henry didn’t think it was an affectation. He truly felt the anger, shame, joy or sadness of his peers as soon as they felt it. He noticed Remy’s facial expressions change, his body mimicking the postures of each person as they spoke. Once the person he “shadowed” empathically left the vicinity, he looked relieved or bereft, depending on what they had been feeling at the time of his sync. Henry suspected it was part of a more complex gift. If the young man would let him, Henry hoped he would let him help explore it, provided he chose to stay.

*

Logan rode into the courtyard of Jean-Luc’s castle shortly after sunrise. The palace guard was alert and ready for his arrival, which impressed him, further confusing him as to how the prince had slipped from their sight. The castle was well-fortified and surrounded by a generous copse, well-isolated from the nearby villages by many miles. Logan noticed several carriages parked along the road inside the gates. The walkway had already been cleared of snow in anticipation of the arrival of the area’s neighboring regents and royals. The palace guard wore black armbands with their uniforms and armor, indicating respect for their king’s day of mourning. Logan hated funerals.

Logan and Jonathan tramped inside, shaking off the winter chill. They were led into the main parlor, where they were served hot cider and tea. “So much black,” Logan murmured to his father.

“Aye. It’s a grim time, indeed.”

Logan and Jonathan felt the pall over the house, and in the hushed, furtive way that the servants moved about, taking coats and serving drinks. He accepted greetings with his peers with nods and firm handshakes, and Logan was polite to the servants as they approached. He left the study briefly when he heard younger, high voices coming from the back hall. 

Logan peered around the corner and saw a small pair of feet in high-button boots disappear. His lips quirked; he’d wondered where the children were, and he imagined that Jean-Luc’s governess and other staff would be hard pressed to keep the children away from the chapel for the memorial service. It was a somber occasion, no place for levity, but Logan enjoyed the sounds of children, and normally found their mischief and quirks entertaining. He sighed. The young prince had just passed his birthday; the palace should have been celebrating the occasion instead of mourning his death. It was unfortunate, and Logan lapsed into a deep yearning that the fates had been kinder to Jean-Luc and his family.

Logan returned to the parlor and attended his father, chatting politely when necessary, but his heart wasn’t in it. The assembled guests slowly hushed as Jean-Luc entered the room; they bowed to him, giving him their respect and fealty. The king was dressed in black wool and raw silk, with shining black Hessians and a belt with a large silver buckle, carved with the family seal. Logan noticed the dark bruises under his eyes; he hadn’t slept. The clothing, while well made, hung on his frame. Jonathan was by his side in an instant, and Jean-Luc managed a smile for his old friend. They embraced, and Logan heard the king exhale a shaky breath as he clapped Jonathan on the back.

“This isn’t how I’d hoped to find you when we met again, Jean-Luc.”

“Nay. But my heart rejoices, old friend, to have you in my house. And with James,” he added, offering Logan his hand. Logan clasped it in both, and there was sympathy in his blue eyes.

“Thank you for contacting us, sire. I’m so sorry.”

“So am I,” Jean-Luc murmured grimly. His eyes misted over, and he stepped back to rub them briefly before he addressed the room.

“The service will commence in ten minutes. Please proceed to the chapel. My queen and I shall be in attendance shortly.” He swept out with no further delays or greetings. Logan heard a brief tsk from his left. Nathaniel Essex, one of the dukes to the west, stroked his beard thoughtfully. Logan chafed at the hard look in the man’s dark eyes.

“Strange that she hasn’t come down to greet us yet,” he mused.

“It’s none of our affair,” Jonathan mentioned coldly. “This household is in mourning, Essex.”

“You’d do well to remember that,” Logan added.

“I meant no disrespect. Although, there was no love lost between the prince and his stepmother. ‘Mourning’ might be a broad term-“ Logan’s hand darted out and snapped around the man’s wrist as he checked his manicured nails. The prince’s nostrils flared and his eyes dilated dangerously. His upper lip snarled slightly, pulling back over his teeth. The act revealed slightly elongated canine teeth, and the low, hunkering growl that issued from them made the duke recoil and reconsider his remarks.

“You said you meant no disrespect. You would do well to say what you mean, and mind what you say.”

“Aye,” the duke stammered. “I, er, spoke out of turn. Excuse me.” Logan released his grip on the man’s wrist and made a sound of disgust under his breath as he hurried away. He despised men who ran away from their own offenses, and Essex was a cowardly, hateful person who seemed to enjoy others’ misfortunes. Logan had the displeasure of meeting his son, Nathan, as well, at a previous engagement at court, and he found him woefully arrogant and cut from the same cloth.

The procession to the chapel was just as grim, but Logan was relieved to feel the fresh air on his cheeks, a reprieve from the stuffy feel of so many bodies gathered in the parlor. They filed inside and filled the few front pews, anointing themselves with the holy water beside the altar.

Jean-Luc took the seat at the head of the church, and there was an empty one beside him. A few of the regents peered around nervously at the sound of weeping that came from the back of the chapel. Hidden in the alcove was N’Dare, sniffling and dabbing her eyes in a crumpled handkerchief. She clutched an odd keepsake that appeared to be a small, brown rag doll. Logan eyed it curiously and wondered who the woman was, surprised at her coloring and exotic beauty. Who was she, that she wept so bitterly?

Jean-Luc’s staff slowly filed inside once the regents were seated, and they were a motley group. Logan thought he recognized Jean-Luc’s footmen and stable hands from the last hunt that he attended, but the one who stood out most was Victor, the palace huntsman. Logan was surprised to see him huddling in the read of the chapel, separate from the rest. He saw the large blond cross himself and bow his head as he waited for the service to start. Logan knew it was a somber occasion, but it still awed him to see the depth of the giant’s anguish, and to almost feel his…shame.

Odd, indeed…

There was a low rustling of skirts and light footsteps as Jean-Luc’s second wife made her appearance.

“Gods,” Jonathan mused, “she’s lovely. The boy’s mother was, too, but…” He didn’t continue, and Logan decided that he didn’t have to, awed as he was, too, at the queen’s golden beauty. She was tall, slender and elegant in her black velvet gown and cloak lined in shining satin. She wore a black veil of scalloped lace over her face in mourning, but it didn’t detract from her creamy skin or ropes of honey blond hair. Her blue eyes shone with tears, but she kept her head held high as she passed. Her bearing was still haughty and dignified. Logan wasn’t sure of whether to be impressed, given Jean-Luc’s haggard state.

She took her seat beside her husband and held his hand; he seemed to accept the gesture grudgingly, as if he meant to be polite. Logan’s scalp tingled. The bishop brought them all to their feet for his opening greetings, and then back down to their knees to pray.

“We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of a beloved son, but to celebrate his delivery unto the bosom of our Lord…” Logan hardly heard the words. He knew they were meaningless to Jean-Luc, when they wouldn’t bring his son back. The service was peaceful, and the guests gathered in the chapel were given the opportunity to reflect on the young prince and their impressions of him when he was alive.

There was no coffin. No urn. Nothing tangible of the prince to bury. That also unnerved Logan, that every trace of the boy was gone, but he was relieved not to have to view his body. It would unman him and make his father break down, as well.

The bishop allowed the queen to rise from her seat and gestured for her to approach a large easel with a drape over it. She slid off the drape, and the occupants of the church sucked in a collective breath. It was an oil portrait of the prince, and Logan felt a knot clog his throat at the sight.

If the painting was a true likeness of him, then Prince Remy was achingly beautiful. The oils were lovingly rendered, showing a boy on the verge of manhood, tall, slim, with laughing eyes and the faintest curl of a smile on his lips. His hair was a long tumble of auburn, shining and lush, and he had creamy, flawless skin. He had thick, long lashes that any woman would envy, arched brows and a high, poetic forehead. His cheekbones were sculpted and high, and there was a hint of a dimple in his chin.

But it was his eyes that seemed to stare back at Logan, piercing him. 

“Red,” he whispered.

“Aye,” his father murmured. “Remy was a unique lad, wasn’t he?” Logan nodded, but he couldn’t stop staring at the boy’s face. The background of the painting showed the landscape of the palace, telling Logan the boy sat for it in Jean-Luc’s garden. His hair was suffused with sunlight, and his eyes…those eyes were unmatched, the true, fiery crimson of fresh spilled blood, but they glowed with an inner flame.

Queen Raven sat beside her husband once again, occasionally dabbing her eyes. Jean-Luc, on the other hand, sat with tears streaming freely down his cheeks, silent in his anguish. The bishop described Remy’s antics and his impressions of him as a child, detailing his love of the hunt and his close relationship with his father. Logan felt a keen ache when he heard more pronounced weeping from the back of the chapel, and he knew it was the dark-skinned woman holding the doll.

*

A candle was lit for the prince inside the chapel, and flowers were laid at a headstone outside, difficult for the undertaker to install due to the snow-caked ground. The regents uttered prayers and blessings as they passed, but they left the grave quickly, as if they didn’t want to share in Jean-Luc’s misfortune by prolonged contact.

Logan walked up to the grave and set down a scarf, kneeling down upon it. He kissed his fingertips and brushed them over the grave. Then he closed his eyes and set up a brief, fervent prayer. When he got up and joined his father, Jonathan held his hand and squeezed it.

*

The banquet in the main hall was sumptuous but subdued, the chatter lacking the exuberance that marked Remy’s birthday party. Logan sipped a cup of hot tea, eschewing the mead, ale, mulled wine and whisky that were offered at the table. Logan preferred to have a drink at the inn among close friends, or to pour a toast alone to old love and old losses. Jean-Luc ensconced himself at the head of the table with his cognac. His wife, on the other hand, made polite conversation and drank freely of the port wine, veil gone and revealed in all of her glory. Something about that still unsettled Logan.

He found the woman from the chapel and stopped her for a moment by the hearth. “Prithee, good woman. May I have an audience with you?” She looked up in surprise from her seat, and automatically she stood to her full height and curtsied. Logan was just as shocked to realize that she towered over him. Up close she was lovely, but her eyes bore shadows under them, just as prominently as Jean-Luc’s.

“Good morning, Highness,” she said softly. Logan reached for her hands, and she allowed him to clasp hers in greeting. Hers were warm and soft, and she smelled pleasantly of sandalwood and lavender. 

“Tell me your name?” he inquired.

“I am the king’s…I mean, I was…the prince’s governess,” she told him uncertainly. “But…my name is N’Dare Munroe.”

“That’s a lovely name you’ve got.”

“Thank you, Highness,” she replied shakily, but she gave him a smile that took a lot of effort, not wanting him to feel awkward. “How may I serve you?”

“Walk with me for a minute,” he told her. She looked surprised, but she allowed him to lead her from the great room. “Gather our coats?” N’Dare nodded, pleased. She longed to leave the banquet and get away from the stuffy atmosphere of so many bodies pressed close in the chamber and the scent of alcohol. They bundled themselves warmly against the buffeting wind and strolled out into the gardens. Crisp snow crunched beneath their feet. They were silent for a few minutes, just enjoying the air and each other’s presence.

“I know you were close to the prince. I heard you mourn for him.”

“Highness, I’m so sorry to have been so undignified. I shouldn’t have made such a scene.”

“Don’t apologize for being heartbroken,” Logan chided her gently. “It’s clear to me that you loved him very much.”

“Oh, sire!” she mused. “He was such a special little boy. I have very little purpose left to living, now.” Her voice shook again, and this time she flicked away an errant tear from her coffee brown eyes. 

“Surely Jean-Luc has other positions that you could fill in his household? He isn’t planning to send you away?”

“Nay, sire. My husband also works in the palace. Our place on his staff is secure, but my king has no other children, and…I feel empty. You see…it was always presumptuous of me, but I began looking after the prince, as his nursemaid, shortly after I lost my daughter.” Understanding drifted over Logan’s features. “It was wrong of me to feel the way that I did, but caring for him filled a hole in my life left when my daughter was stolen.”

“Stolen? She was taken?”

“Aye, Highness. She was. Someone crept into our house and stole her right out of her cradle. There was no sign of them anywhere. They took her baby blanket and left behind the dollie I made.”

“The one you held in the church?” She nodded.

“Aye. You think it’s odd.”

“Nay. It’s a token of your memories of your child. I don’t blame you for such a thing.”

“I let Master Remy have it. He saw it one day in my chamber and pointed to it. I couldn’t deny him, and it became one of his favorite toys. It’s fairly ragged now, since he was a little boy, and a scamp at that. But it helped me, sire, to see that it was loved.” Logan smiled. He took her hand and curled it in the crook of his arm as they continued to walk, and he felt her relax slightly beside him.

“Did you see him the day he disappeared?”

“Aye. He was dressed in his party clothes. Master Remy despised finery, sire. He loved rough, dirty togs that would allow him to ride and hunt with his father, or with Victor.”

“Who is Victor?”

“Our huntsman,” she explained. “Perhaps you’ve seen him. He’s easy enough to recognize. Taller than me, with long blond hair and blue eyes. Strong as an ox.” She gestured with her hand to demonstrate how tall he was, and Logan was surprised. He was certain it was Victor he saw in church, sitting alone, but he hadn’t imagined he’d be so large standing up, if her description was any indication.

“Where was Victor that day?”

“Here in the palace, when I saw him last. I made Remy get dressed in his birthday dinner outfit. It was a lovely new tunic,” she explained proudly. “He looked so handsome in it.”

“What did it look like?” 

“It was a white tunic, with the family’s crest embroidered on it in red and black. Those are our kingdom’s colors, and wasn’t it fortunate that they matched his eyes?” she chuckled. Logan nodded. “He had on a new white shirt under it. And new leather pants. They were brown. He was impatient with me for fussing over it, but I wanted him to look perfect.” Then her smiled faded. “It was odd.”

“What was, good woman?”

“He seemed troubled. He mentioned that he wasn’t looking forward to spending time with the other children.”

“Did he have any that he didn’t get along with?”

“Master Remy was well-behaved, sire, but yes. Many of the children of my king’s peers are…very privileged,” she said politely.

“Spoiled brats,” Logan clarified for her.

“Er…aye,” she admitted, wincing. “Not to cast any aspersions, sire…”

“Go on.”

“Master Remy wasn’t fond of the Essex boy. They’d had a few confrontations. Remy complained that he used to tease him.” Logan wasn’t surprised to hear that.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Sire…I mustn’t be privy to such things.”

“You didn’t hear a word of it.” N’dare squelched a smile and they continued their walk.

“Master Remy wanted to start the hunt,” she told him. “It was all he could talk about, and he’d looked forward to it for weeks.”

“A hunt?”

“He was going to join all of the men in his first formal hunt. He’d gone on trips with his father before, but he was so excited about this one.”

Logan pondered this for a moment, and then he suggested they see the other side of the garden, where Raven’s apple and pear trees grew.

*

 

When they went back inside, Logan asked her for one more favor.

“Do you still have the dollie?” Her eyes lit up.

“Certainly, Highness.” She led him back down the corridor, to a closed off chamber.

It was the boy’s room. Logan felt an odd sense of peace steal over him as his eyes roved over his belongings and the simple furnishings. There was an enormous bookcase full of novels and texts. The bed was neatly made with a heavy patchwork quilt and pillows sewn from sturdy damask and linen. There was a large desk in the corner and a small iron stove, a cedar chest at the foot of the bed, and an armoire beside the window.

Logan spied the dollie on the desk, and he crossed the room, picking it up carefully. He smoothed back the white yarn hair, curious. “It’s well-made,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen one like this.”

“If it’s unusual, sire, then it’s because my daughter, herself, was unique. I made this to resemble her.” Logan looked up at her, once again surprised.

“Her hair was white?”

“And her eyes were the purest blue,” N’Dare explained. “She favored David a bit when she smiled, but Ororo was who she was.”

“Ororo?”

“It means ‘beautiful.’ And she was. Call it a mother’s pride, but I’d never seen anything lovelier than my little girl the moment she was pulled from my womb.” N’Dare stepped back and bowed her head, trying to stop the tears that fell again. “Until I met Master Remy. He was sweet and good-natured, and a pleasure to take care of.”

“You raised him.”

“Aye. From the moment that Her Majesty passed away. Call it a strange trick of fate, sire, that I lost my daughter before she was weaned, so soon before His Majesty sent out word that he needed a wet nurse.”

Logan contemplated her words as he studied the doll, turning it in his hands. The doll’s eyes, sewn so skillfully in robin’s egg blue thread, stared back up at him but offered no answers.

“Remy named the dollie ‘Sunshine.’ I don’t know why he did, but it pleased me.” N’Dare wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “He was the light of my life.”

*

Jonathan and Logan left the following night from a neighboring inn, not wanting to intrude further on Jean-Luc’s hospitality. The ride home was uneventful but fitful for Logan, who couldn’t stop thinking of what N’Dare had said. Remy had been troubled on his birthday? Why?

They reached Jonathan’s castle gates, and Logan was relieved to climb out of the carriage and stretch his legs. He hated feeling hemmed in, and his time in the gardens helped him immeasurably. When they entered the main hall, the guards bowed respectfully, and his father’s majordomo, Thomas, hurried over to greet them and take their coats. 

“Sire, you’ve a message. I left it in your study. No one’s touched it,” he assured him.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

“Would you like some brandy to warm you up?”

“Aye. Two.” Jonathan gestured for Logan to follow him into the study, and Logan didn’t argue, even though he longed for a hot bath and some time to himself. He settled for the large, comfortable armchair and ottoman, and another of his father’s grooms hurried over to help him remove his boots. Logan relaxed and enjoyed the snifter of brandy, letting it burn its way down into his gut.

Jonathan cracked the wax seal of the scroll and laid it out on the large desk, lighting a candle to read by. “What is it, Father?”

“One of my contacts has sent back word to me on an inquiry I made.”

“Regarding?”

“A very eligible young woman in her twenty-fourth year,” Jonathan told him cheerfully. Logan choked on his drink. Jonathan hurried over to clap him on the back and take the glass from him, setting it down on the table.

“Father…*koff-huuuuurrrggh*…why…”

“You know very well why,” his father snapped. “Word has it she’s very fetching and pleasant. She isn’t some simpering young miss.”

“Instead she’s nearly an old maid,” Logan pointed out. Jonathan tsked.

“That’s an old fashioned view,” his father scolded. Logan mulled it over, and he had no argument for him. Logan had no problem with age, but he worried about being paired with a “fetching, pleasant” miss that so far hadn’t found a proper suitor.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She probably isn’t asking what’s wrong with you,” Jonathan muttered, shaking his head. He reached out and tugged a lock of Logan’s hair just behind his ear.

“OW!”

“I want very little from my only son most of the time,” his father told him casually. “That doesn’t mean my expectations aren’t high. I love you, son, but I’m not a patient man. I won’t watch you die alone. I’m not getting any younger, myself. You need an heir.”

“Do I really, Father?” Logan sighed, raising his brow. He sulked with the brandy warming in his hands, staring into the fire as it cracked and popped.

“Don’t be petulant. She could be a very nice woman. Give her a chance.”

“Can we wait until the weather is a bit more fair?”

“I’m sending back word that they may expect us in a month,” his father piped up. Logan wasn’t sure he liked his father’s smug grin or the way he brandished his quill as he dipped it into the inkwell. 

*

Logan and his father made the promised journey through the mountains, traveling along the winding river, until they reached the secluded palace within the Silver Forest. When they reached the gates and rolled into the courtyard, they were greeted by the king, queen, and a host of guards and footmen. Once they were settled into the royal study, nursing cups of hot cider and almond cookies, the palace matchmaker made the announcement that his prospective bride was ready to meet him.

Small feet shod in jewel-encrusted silver slippers were nearly silent as she descended the stairs. Her dove gray velvet gown was understated, trimmed in silver lace as a demure backdrop for the diamonds she wore at her ears and throat. Midnight black hair and ebony eyes shone beneath the light from the sconces, and lips red as rubies smiled at him pleasantly enough, but Logan felt no immediate spark, no jump of excitement in his belly.

But the night was young.

*

 

Ororo was patient. It was the best word Remy could come up with to describe her, if anyone thought to ask him.

She put up with Sam and Bobby’s antics with good grace, and she tolerated Warren’s teasing with a roll of her eyes and a sharp tweak of his ear. She could easily see eye to eye with him, since she was even taller than Danielle, but she was less gangly, more gracefully built, her slim form promising more generous curves soon.

Ororo loved to watch the snow fall outside and see the flocks of birds fall into their formations, twittering and screeching as they took flight. Of everyone in the house, she loved to read almost as much as Henry, and she was very domestic. She enjoyed a neat living space and frequently helped Betsy in the kitchen, but the rest of the time, she spent most of her time outside, in the open air. When the rest of the children bumped elbows and shoulders crowding their way to the dinner table, Ororo would hang back, preferring to wait until everyone else was served. She took her bowl of stew but eschewed the chunks of meat, finding them distasteful. Like Dani, Ororo felt a kinship with the beasts of the forest, but instead of being able to communicate them, she could feel them, having a keen sense of her surroundings and all living things. It was a frequent point of contention between the two girls.

“How can you eat that?” Ororo murmured, watching Dani tuck into the squirrel and rabbit stew.

“It’s yummy,” Dani shrugged as she scooped up a generous spoonful of stew, savoring the piquant seasonings and the textures of the meats. 

“It’s cruel. They were sweet, furry little things just this morning,” Ororo said with distaste.

“So? They weren’t anyone I know,” Dani argued as she dipped her bread into the broth.

“If they talked to you before you or Rahne caught them, would it make a difference?” Ororo folded her arms and watched her expectantly. Dani wrinkled her nose.

“Maybe. But right now the squirrel’s telling me he needs more salt.” Henry smothered a chuckle as he drank his tea. Dani wouldn’t be phased or turned away from her usual point of view easily, no matter who argued with her.

Ororo spent a lot of time by herself. When the winter gave way to the first new green buds, she took to the sky, with Warren eagerly following suit. They were impressive to behold, and Remy envied them their gifts. He felt their joy keenly, anyway, even from his vantage point of having to look up at them. The sunlight and starkness of the sky made her white hair and Warren’s wings almost blinding to behold. They dipped and danced through the air, occasionally taking each other’s hands and pinwheeling around and around. Remy felt Ororo’s exuberance, completely out of character with her demeanor when she was in the house. It puzzled him. How could she contain so much bubbling, infectious delight?

Whenever Ororo flew, the weather patterns changed, and the air would go from placid to a near-gale wind that made the trees around him toss and the shutters bang against the cottage. Her blue eyes would frost over to a silvery white whenever she used her gift, something that initially unnerved him, but he grew used to it, and she smiled at him to allay his fears as she nudged aside a cluster of clouds with a mere thought to let the beams of sunlight shine through.

Sometimes, Remy would follow her outside or throughout the house. If she thought his attention was odd, she said nothing, merely making room for him in the main room if he wanted to sit beside her or help her build up the fire. Remy wouldn’t explain that his empathy drew him to her. Her emotions were calm and tranquil most of the time, unless she was closed up in a too-tight space. Remy felt her icy, stark fear when Bobby and Sam jokingly locked her in the armoire in Betsy’s room. He hurried back at the first taste of her terror, feeling it push up in his own chest, choking him. Remy felt himself hyperventilate the closer he drew, and when he unlocked the armoire, his hands shook.

Ororo nearly bowled him over, and she was pale and shaken. Henry took the boys aside and threatened to soundly thrash their hides if they didn’t apologize, and quickly. It was too little, too late; Ororo fled the cottage, hurling herself up into the clouds, and she didn’t return until dinner.

Remy waited for her in the melting snow, watching it drip from the tall oaks in the fading sunlight. She landed in a clearing a few meters from the cottage; he’d been watching her flight with difficulty before he finally enlisted Warren’s help. Warren had the keen, peerless eyesight of an eagle, and he tracked her easily throughout the sky from the ground.

Warren was about to greet her as she lit in patch of sunshine, cheeks no longer pale. Her eyes shone and her hair was a wild tumble around her shoulders, still whipping in the faint breeze. Remy stopped him; he felt her unease and wariness. Warren scowled at Remy in confusion.

“Not yet,” Remy murmured. “Let her come.” Ororo stared them down, almost in challenge. Warren’s feathers rustled, a sign that he was unsettled that Ororo radiated, but there was concern in his eyes. Ororo sighed, as though she made up her mind, and she slowly closed the gap between them. She glared up at Remy, something that baffled him, and he felt how indignant she was. His cheeks flushed at her irritation as it swallowed him up.

“Are you two just going to stare at me?” she accused casually.

“Who’s staring?” Warren flipped back.

“It’s getting dark soon,” Remy pointed out. Ororo narrowed her eyes at him and sighed as though he were an idiot.

He wanted to remind her that she didn’t like the dark, or small, tight spaces, if the emotions he’d read from her before meant anything. He didn’t want to share that information with Warren, however, since he wanted to preserve her dignity. But Ororo was doing a fine job of that herself.

She breezed by them both haughtily, walking in long, angry strides. Remy could have sworn he picked up a hint of relief within her, and she was calm as she entered the kitchen. Bobby and Sam were generous once more with their apologies, and Warren watched her as she helped Betsy roll out the dough for the evening’s bread. He periodically peeked over her shoulder at what she was doing, and his wings unfolded slightly, seeming to shield her back. “Are you just going to hover over me all night?” Ororo muttered.

“No.” Warren handed her the rolling pin as she punched down the dough, deflating the bulbous white mound with satisfying thumps.

“Good,” she added sourly as she took it from him. Warren backed off. Remy knew how he felt, too, as he drank in the blond boy’s disappointment and his sense of having been rebuffed.

 

*

 

When the first of the bluebirds returned to their nests and the new shoots of grass covered acres of land in King Jonathan’s territories, word was sent out of his son’s impending nuptials, and the people rejoiced. The union would bring together two celebrated families and fruitful lands, a merge that would benefit both. Rumor traveled rampantly through every village of the gruff, bold prince and his stunning, dignified bride.

Their wedding day was filled with revelry. Their wedding night went as could be expected, two bodies and two souls uniting out of simple need and a modicum of passion. Logan was a kind, tender husband, and his queen, Kayla, was a reasonable woman who cared for his needs.

Her soul left him the moment his daughter came squalling into the world, breathing her last the moment that Logan took the babe from the midwife. Jonathan gained a grandchild and lost a beloved daughter-in-law on the same night, by some cruel trick of fate.


	9. Beauty Most Unfair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy grows to maturity while a widower attends to family matters. All the while, a queen plots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betsy don't take no shit.

Summary: Remy grows to maturity while a widower attends to family matters. All the while, a queen plots.

 

Victor poured himself another generous nip of whiskey and downed it, savoring its full-bodied burn. His face was overgrown with five days’ stubble, too unkempt to be a proper beard. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and he contemplated more whiskey to chase away his headache and the demons that plagued his sleep. He stared into the fire, watching the flames dance like wild sprites.

The day proved a failure. Victor led his men on an unsuccessful hunt and had nearly gotten himself gored by a wild boar. All he managed to do was to spook Brutus and get knocked off the frantic, aging stallion. It was always more difficult hunting in the winter, despite the animal tracks captured by the thick, white snow. Victor longed to fall asleep that night and never wake up.

Raven left him alone, once she felt he had carried out his ugly deed. Victor couldn’t tolerate her touch or her voice, nor her smirk that she allowed herself when no one was paying attention. She was disgusted by Victor’s need to numb his pain with alcohol, late nights and flinging himself headlong into the forest on Brutus, whether it was to hunt with his men or, more unwisely, alone.

Six years had done nothing to soothe him or silence the screams in his head. Victor replayed the same cursed scenes in his mind, of Remy wearing his coat and the hateful, red cashmere scarf knotted around his slender neck, a harbinger of blood that Raven forced him to spill. Victor felt no less ashamed and damned to have spared his life, when he’d doomed him to a life so far inferior to that which he’d been born to. Jean-Luc lost his son; it was as though Victor had twisted the knife in his heart, too, as he’d have done to Remy.

“Victor.”

“So now you’ve come to rub my nose in it, too?” he slurred, glaring at Cerebra’s greenish visage. She planted her hands on her hips and sighed.

“If I were solid, I’d deck you soundly.”

“More’s the pity. I’d love a good, rough row,” he admitted. “Or a toss. Jus’ not with Raven. Heaven help me from throwin’ my lot in with that ‘un.”

“That’s an understatement,” Cerebra agreed. “But too little, too late.”

“Yer tellin’ the truth,” he groused. He took a swig directly from the whiskey bottle, and Cerebra winced at his lack of decorum and sorry state. His clothing was rumpled, buttons done up wrong and torn here and there. A soup stain marred his white shirt sleeve, and his hair was woefully uncombed, hanging in lank ropes down his back. She drank in his anguish and recoiled, but Cerebra remembered her purpose.

“Victor. Snap out of it.”

“Ain’ good fer nothin’,” he slurred again. “No good fer huntin’. Didn’…protect Master Remsss…”

“You have to protect him NOW,” Cerebra told him briskly. “I’ve been given a message. I’m passing it along to you, Victor. You must go to him. There’s evil afoot, and Remy’s in grave danger.”

“Again?” Victor scoffed. “Nay, milady…or whatever ya are,” he hiccupped. “The prince isn’t in danger. He’s dead. I killed ‘im, remember?”

Cerebra sighed. He leered at her. “Not a problem,” he offered cheerfully, even though his blue eyes were flat and dull.

She felt no pity for him when he tumbled over his seat after she split the air with a piercing, shrill scream that he felt as well as heard. It resonated through him and cut across his nerve endings like a thousand swords. Victor spasmed and clutched his ears, curling up into a miserable, twitching ball on the floor.

“Only you can hear that, Victor,” Cerebra informed him soberly. “I won’t stop until you get your arse up off the floor, take a bath, and march yourself down to the stable.”

“Mercy,” he whimpered as she assailed his ears again, more loudly this time.

“She won’t show him mercy,” Cerebra told him coldly. 

“How the hell d’you know?” he grated out.

“I have my sources.”

*

 

Irene sat knitting in her favorite rocker while Raven napped. She tutted inwardly at Raven’s frequent need for beauty sleep. It was a redundant effort, but who was she to give her a hard time?

Her sister worried her. Raven grew more erratic lately. She behaved in a manner unfitting for a grieving stepmother, let alone a queen. Raven spent long nights journeying away from the palace, going to gaming hells, dancing, playing whist and gambling away large sums of money. She took lovers from various households and estates; Essex had appetites just as decadent as hers. Raven knew better than to scat where she ate. 

Irene’s sleep was uneasy, troubled with confusing and terrifying dreams. Her visions were dark and murky, and evil shapes formed from the mist. A sinister, yellow-eyed snake slithered out from the depths and hissed a warning to Irene, and she felt herself choking until she awoke. She coughed and struggled upright in bed. She found herself alone in the chamber, as Raven was out on another romp. This didn’t bode well. 

She confided to the mirror, who was surprisingly good company on a dark night. Irene bundled herself in a blanket and sat at the vanity. She stared up into Cerebra’s face as though she could see her, and even the spirit was awed at the sightless eyes that looked so canny. “I know you’re in there. Don’t be shy.”

“What can I do for you, milady?”

“Don’t milady me,” Irene said peevishly. “There’s evil afoot. You know it as well as I do.”

“Don’t trouble yourself so, Irene,” Cerebra argued.

“My dreams trouble me. Keep in mind that my dreams come true, for good or bad. I had a vision. I saw my nephew.” Irene accepted Remy as family easily enough, having lost her own at such a young age, due to such questionable circumstances. “He was staring up at me, not breathing. There were bruises around his neck.”

“Oh, my.” Cerebra paled.

“I know this isn’t a vision from the past. I only deal in the future that the Fates whisper to me. And I can’t be having dreams of my nephew dying if he’s already dead, can I, Cerebra?”

“No. Perhaps not.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps there is something you’re not telling me.”

“Perhaps.”

“It’s time for you to be honest with me. I’m not my sister. I can handle the ugly truth.”

Truer words were never spoken.

*

 

Victor didn’t know why he listened to spirits, and his head still throbbed as he spurred Brutus through the woods. The horse was in better shape than he was, and he was sure-footed as he led them down a familiar trail. Brutus remembered their journey from years ago, when he carried his injured master away from the eclectically furnished cottage and its unusual occupants. He heard Cerebra’s words in his thoughts.

*Remy isn’t the boy you knew. He’s grown, and he’s changed so much, Victor. He remembers little to none of his old life, or of his old family, but he has a new one, now.*

That revelation puzzled Victor, and it chafed him. He was relieved that Remy had been living safely up until now, or so Cerebra told him. But it ached, in a way, that Remy wouldn’t be able to remember him if he saw him again, when he’d been so fond of the mite long ago.

Victor wasn’t enjoying the taste of bile on his tongue, and he took a thirsty slug of his canteen, relieved that it was just water. He lied to himself every time that he wouldn’t overindulge, but it was easier each time to lose himself in a bottle of whisky, wine, or cognac.

He came to a familiar clearing, searching himself for why it grabbed him so strongly, unable to associate a memory with it.

It came to him like a lightning bolt when he saw the tree, an aging, tall pine. By some trick of time and chance, there was a fiber of faded, scarlet yarn. Cashmere. Victor pulled Brutus’ reins, halting his steady gait. He dismounted clumsily and stalked to the pine, untangling the bit of yarn from the rough bark. He tucked it deeply into his pocket, not bothering to mull the reason for it, and leapt back onto Brutus’ back. The horse whickered at him in annoyance.

His ass began to chafe from the long journey in the saddle. Victor had spent more time cooped up in the stables or in his own room, and his muscles were beginning to atrophy slightly, making it harder to even get out of bed. Images of Remy marched through his mind, from birth to his thirteenth birthday. Victor wondered what changes time wrought, and if the lad continued to break hearts. He chuckled to himself; of course the boy did. How could he do anything else?

He regretted the life Remy had to give up, because of what Victor did. How many privileges had been denied him? What kind of education could he have received? Did the odd blue creature send him to school? He shared the house with such an odd band of misfits… then Victor remembered his peers, the offspring of Jean-Luc’s fellow regents. Victor shuddered. All of them were spoiled, entitled brats, not a sweet bone in any of their bodies. Perhaps Remy was better off, but Victor knew that didn’t let him off the hook. Because of him, and because of Raven’s damned scheming, Remy lost myriad opportunities to thrive and to rule. The cottage was pitiful; he’d left him to a life of squalor, surely…

*

 

“DOUGIE!” Rahne yelped as she watched the familiar wagon approach. Even from that far away, she saw Douglas Ramsey’s familiar grin and his dark, honey blond hair, no longer the curly, fair locks of his childhood. His father held the reins, and the slightly rickety wheels made a grand racket on the forest floor. Rahne changed in an inkling into her half-wolf form, looking odd in her girlish brown dress and boots but covered in mounds of russet fur. She enjoyed the speed the change gave her, and she couldn’t wait to see him.

The two remained fast friends when Henry finally found Douglas’ parents in the village. They’d been heartsick and desperate, putting up letters of notice in nearby alehouses and shops describing their son and the name he answered to. When Henry brought him back to them, Douglas’s mother nearly fainted away at the sight of the large, furry blue creature in spectacles and trousers. But they fell upon Douglas immediately, hugging and kissing him and crying rivers of tears. Rahne gave her own disappointment at having to say goodbye to her friend its full voice, sobbing and blubbering the whole time, but she was relieved for him that he found his family again. Dani’s bodice grew very wet with Rahne’s tears, but she didn’t mind. Much.

Danielle and Sam grinned and shook their heads. “So undignified,” she said in disgust.

“She learned that from you.”

“Did not.” Dani reached down and scratched her bum where it itched. Warren silently rolled his eyes.

Rahne barely let Douglas climb down before she was on him, hugging him so tightly he “oomph!”-ed and flushed bright red, but he was just as glad to see her, joy shining from his blue eyes. She changed back to normal and finally allowed him to breathe, drawing back so she could look at him. 

“Och, you’re so handsome!” she cried. “You look so different!”

“You, too,” he muttered. He was still blushing, and his body was reacting strangely to her appearance and her proximity. 

Rahne was stunning.

She was petite still, never growing beyond a modest five feet and three inches, and her wiry skinniness was replaced by lush curves, particularly a wasp waist that looked even narrower cinched in by the corseted bodice of brown leather. Rahne’s eyes were still the green of new leaves, and her skin was still creamy and fair, but it reminded him of peaches and cream, unblemished and dewy. Her hair wasn’t carroty anymore, but a rich, coppery titian with pleasing blonde glints, and she still wore it boyishly short, but it still suited her. Full, tourmaline pink lips wore a smug grin.

“Girls aren’t handsome, silly.”

“You know what I mean,” he told her. He backed off and rubbed his nape, eyes darting away briefly. Warren snickered under his breath. He wanted to feel badly for him, but Douglas was on his own.

“I have a new book! I need you to translate it,” she ordered, practically dragging him into the cottage.

“This place looks different,” he remarked. 

“Henry replaced the shutters. And he added the loft, can’t you tell?” Sure enough, there was a second story that now boasted an attic. “We have a bit more room, now. At least Warren can stretch his wings, and Ororo can be closer to the sky.”

“Where is she?”

“In the sky,” Rahne shrugged. “She’ll be back soon.” Douglas’ father shook his head, baffled.

He eventually stayed outside to water and feed his horses. Betsy met him with a cool drink and slice of bread and chatted with him politely, and he was struck by her unusual beauty and enigmatic personality. She unnerved him slightly, but he enjoyed her hospitality.

“Where is everybody?”

“Out and about. You saw Dani. We got back from hunting a little while ago. And I picked some oranges, they were nice and ripe.”

“Hunting?” The urge to blurt out “But you’re a GIRL!” was strong, but he held his tongue. Rahne was headstrong, bold, and she would be hurt if he disparaged her instincts based on a gender role that didn’t truly apply to her. Rahne was as much wolf as girl, and hunting was in her blood. At sixteen, that much hadn’t changed.

“What’s Bobby up to?”

“Nothing but trouble,” she snorted. “And then Sam’s such a layabout.” As if on cue, Sam lumbered out into the main living room, yawning and stretching his long limbs. He wasn’t as gangly as before, and some of his awkwardness was gone, but he had a pillow crease in his lean cheek and his blue eyes were still drowsy. He gave Doug a cavalier wave and lazy grin.

“Hey, Dougie.”

“Good grief,” he muttered. Was everyone taller than him? Douglas was a respectable five and half feet tall and of a medium build, but Sam and Warren towered over him, and Dani was at least five-eight, still just as willowy as she was before, and her hair reached well below her generously curved hips. She wore two slender plaits that hung down over her breasts, and the rest tumbled freely down her long, graceful back. She was Rahne’s physical opposite, her dark coloring and firm features more compelling than beautiful. Her eyes were always full of laughter, usually at Douglas’ expense.

She came up behind him and cuffed him in the arm. “Oof…”

“Man up,” she chided him. “Sit for a spell, stranger.”

“Let me get that book!” Rahne piped up. She hurried about, hustling him onto a stool, shoving an orange into his hand, and bidding him to take off his boots, which she left beside the door. Minutes later, Douglas found himself reading a book written in Italian to her, translating it perfectly while she sat rapt, chin propped on her hands.

Warren headed back outside, contemplating a quick flight. He didn’t want to be rude, now that company was there, but Ororo had the right idea earlier, and he longed to join her.

He heard the low whicker of horses in the stable, and he grinned as he realized where Remy was. He put thoughts of a flight aside and headed to the back yard of the cottage. The stable was better fortified now, thanks for Henry’s handiwork and direction, and Sam, Remy and Bobby were his co-builders. Every year, they made improvements to their home with their meager incomes. Henry tutored children from impoverished homes, and he gave special attention to those who boasted unusual gifts and traits such as his own, who might not have the opportunity or be guaranteed the safety due to narrow minds in the village school. He was a scholar and lettered school professor, despite his bestial countenance. He was well-traveled, having performed in a circus for much of his younger years, but he learned literature, medicine and science at the knees of brilliant men, awing them with his natural intelligence and genteel demeanor.

Warren entered the stable quietly, hoping to surprise him, but he knew it was a futile effort. Still, it was entertaining just to watch him. Satisfying, to see him in his element. Remy headed outside to the stable to clean the stalls, his chore for the week. They all rotated them according to Betsy’s stringent schedule, and Warren scoffed that Remy got stuck with shit-shoveling duty, but Remy ruined his fun by being fine with it.

The day was brisk, and there was still snow on the ground here and there, but it was shrinking down to smaller patches with muddy slicks of new grass in between. Remy skipped wearing his heavy jacket, settling for his simple muslin shirt. Ororo warmed the air over a five-mile radius surrounding the acre of land the cottage sat on for Douglas’ visit, which suited Remy just fine. It was a perfect day to work outside.

He spent the rest of the day currying and grooming the horses, trimming some burrs from Daisy’s tail and brushing her coat. He murmured to the horses, sharing their breath and giving them oats and stubs of carrots from his pockets. His shirt clung to him because he’d worked up a sweat, and tendrils of his hair were plastered to his neck, working their way free from his fraying plait. Ororo kept his hair braided and neat, unknowingly taking up the chore from N’Dare; it was a simple pleasure to just sit and brush his hair, chatting by the fireplace after dinner or at her vanity before he said goodnight.

Even though Warren didn’t think he made a sound, Remy addressed him without even facing him. “Think you’re slick, don’t you?”

“Drat.”

“You know better.”

“You’re still weird.”

“Part of my charm.” Warren smiled at the irony of his words. It was.

Remy’s ability to read emotions had intensified and sharpened as he matured. He also had the ability to project the emotions he took in from others, or even to influence how others felt with mere vocal suggestions. He merely had to get them to focus on his eyes, on the inflections in his voice, and to reach out with his mind to gently stroke their psyches. Henry often worried about the potential for trouble or heartache that such a gift carried with it, but Remy obeyed Henry’s injunctions not to abuse it, and he was an innately kind, sensitive young man.

That knowledge had come at great expense to both men, and Remy had never stepped out of line with his gift since.

*

Remy’s first few months at the cottage were rough, marked with more outbursts and tears, both from him and his adoptive “siblings.” Nightmares swamped him when he slept, and he always pushed himself throughout the day, trying to exhaust himself enough to sleep, but he would lie awake, hearing the screams at the Painted Lady. Betsy had dampened his memories, trying to blunt the traumas he’d suffered and leave him less scarred, but Henry warned her away from meddling with his young, developing psyche.

He was frequently standoffish and didn’t always trust affection, at first. But Henry had a strong rapport with him from the moment they met, despite Henry’s frightening countenance. He felt safe with the honey-voiced, blue-furred creature who was, indeed, a man, and a kind one at that.

Remy was fascinated by him, frequently staring at Henry while he attended to chores or minute tasks. Henry often felt those unnerving yet beautiful eyes on him, following him around the house. He chuckled at him once while he filled his pipe by the fire.

“You’re too young for tobacco, so don’t even ask.”

“I didn’t want it.”

“What’s eating you, lad?” He didn’t realize how like Victor he sounded when he asked that question, using that wording. Remy frowned at him, unsure of why it bothered him.

“I just…I can’t sleep.”

“You’ve earned it. Today was a long day. I’m proud of the work you did in the stable, Remy.”

“Well…I’m glad you like it, but…I lie down, and I can’t close my eyes.” He looked upset as he sat at the other end of the couch. Henry grunted and puffed on his pipe thoughtfully. Then he set it down on the small saucer, carefully keeping the ashes from littering Betsy’s nice table.

“Remy, what do you see when you lie down?”

“Faces. Mean ones. They just keep staring down at me and laughing at me, and I feel hands holding…me down…” His voice broke and faltered, and his eyes filled with tears. Henry nodded.

“It’s all right. Tell me. Don’t hold it in, son.”

The endearment opened the flood gates. Remy launched himself at Henry and burrowed into his arms, which he only thought to open at the last minute. He patted Remy as he sobbed, feeling awkward but wanting badly to comfort him. “It’s all right.”

Many of the occupants of the house had cried into his fur at one point or another; it wouldn’t hurt anything to be a little wet again now, either. Henry held him and rocked him, worried at how Remy clung and his hectic gasps, how cold his hands felt. He rubbed his back and patted his hair. “You can’t help what was done to you.”

“I saw blood. He was covered in blood. I was so scared.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Of course you were frightened.”

“I still am.”

“I know. It’s all right. I’m here.”

“Don’t make me go back to my room,” Remy sniffled into Henry’s shoulder. His hand was absently combing through the lush fur at Henry’s nape while he continued to rock him.

“I won’t yet.”

They talked into the night, and Betsy was politely rebuffed when she came to ask if he wanted help getting Remy to bed. Remy’s eyes were drifting shut, but he was fighting sleep.

“I wish you’d let me fix this.”

“You can’t fix this. He needs to heal from it all, Elizabeth.”

“What if he can’t?”

“I don’t believe in ‘can’t,” he growled at her.

“Please…don’t do anything to me,” Remy begged her, turning glistening eyes up to her. Henry had adjusted himself slightly on the couch to accommodate Remy, and the boy’s body was sprawled against him, head cuddled against his furry chest where his robe gapped open. Betsy remembered sharply how difficult it had been to cross Remy’s psychic barriers, and she nodded humbly, backing off. That left them alone.

“She wouldn’t hurt you, Remy.”

“They wouldn’t leave me alone,” Remy admitted. He yawned heavily and stretched against Henry, who was drowsy from the boy’s body heat and the way he was plastered against him by the fire. Henry nuzzled his temple absently, liking the scent of his hair.

He felt his arousal cramp and rise uncomfortably when Remy’s palm settled over his chest, grazing his nipple where it poked up through his indigo fur. Henry’s eyes snapped awake, and he fumbled, to disengage himself from the prince’s embrace.

The conversation had clearly exhausted Remy again, because he was snoring before Henry could tell him that their reclining repose was inappropriate. Henry gratefully picked him up and carried him to his room, walking sideways when he reached the corridor to handle his long legs and keep his feet from bumping into the walls. He settled him in his own bed and pulled the covers high, and he crept from the room soundlessly, heart pounding at the could-haves that raced through his mind.

Damn it. Drat that boy…

As the years passed, Remy matured and discovered things about his body that were new and confusing to him. On nights where he slept well, he had unusual dreams that he didn’t always remember, but when he awoke, his drawers were slightly damp in the crotch and stuck to him. Warren occasionally talked in his sleep, murmuring what sounded curiously like sweet nothings, and Remy blushed deeply when he thought he heard “Kiss me, Remy” when he woke to use the outhouse. His voice was cracking and deepening, sounding odd to his ears, and his bones occasionally ached. A fourth set of molars felt like they were breaking through his gums and hair was beginning to appear on his body where it had never grown before. It was growing difficult to recognize the face staring back at him in the mirror.

He still sought Henry out to talk every now and again. It helped him work through the changes he was experiencing, and the man was an excellent listener and confidante. 

He was seventeen when another nightmare hit him. He awoke drenched in sweat, and unlike nights where he simply crawled into Warren’s hammock with him to cuddle against his feathery down until he dozed back off, he found himself alone in the dark. Tears rolled down his face and he remembered an awful argument he’d had with his blond roommate that night after dinner. 

They’d talked about their past, and Warren made an off-the-cuff remark that Remy didn’t know what it was like to be held against his will for months on end, tied up and treated like a freak. It struck the wrong note with him, and Remy attacked him, throwing the milk bottle at him, which he neatly dodged, but it smashed against the wall. Warren realized his words weren’t wisely chosen and felt ashamed, but it was too little, too late. Betsy scolded them both to clean up the mess, but once Warren swept up the glass fragments and Remy blotted up the milk from the wall and floor, he stormed out of the house. Both boys felt awful, and Remy felt betrayed that his best friend could say something so hurtful.

Remy’s heart was pounding and he felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. The dream was back and worse than before. He saw his stepmother screeching with laughter while hands gripped his throat. Madelyne Pryor was there, too, snapping at him to shut up while she molested him and brandished a mean-looking poker. He felt clammy and weak and desperate for comfort. Remy sighed at the sight of Warren’s sleeping back, then hurled himself from bed and down the hall.

He didn’t knock when he reached Henry’s room. It was neat as a pin, free of clutter and meticulously dusted. Myriad books lined the shelves and his coat and boots were in their customary place by the door, ready for him to put them on and tramp out the door to do the daily chores. He saw Henry lying in bed in the shadows, blue-black fur gleaming in the moonlight coming through the window. He was snoring softly, his broad back rising and falling in an easy, slow rhythm.

Remy pulled aside the covers and climbed in next to him without permission, huddling against him for warmth, and it was oh, so cozy to lie flush against all that soft, decadent fur. Henry stirred, rumbling and stretching a bit, and Remy yawned, already drowsy from the physical contact and from Henry’s slumbering emotions, tranquil and untroubled.

It took Henry exactly three minutes to realize that he wasn’t alone. His nose caught a familiar scent and felt something –someone – pressed up against his back, far too close for proper etiquette, even though it wasn’t an uncomfortable position. He recognized Remy’s scent and his breathing patterns and sighed. The lad had a nightmare. Drat…

“Remy?” Henry inquired sweetly.

“Hmmm?”

“Would you mind telling me how you ended up in my bed?”

“Warm here. Got lonely.” Remy yawned and tried to settle back down. Henry flushed, glad the boy couldn’t see the effect he was having on him, because Remy was at least clad in his drawers, but Henry slept in the nude every night, no matter what the weather. He felt Remy’s smooth, firm skin pressed along his back, legs spooned into the crook of his knees and flush against his rump, and he burned with embarrassment. Remy’s nose was nuzzling his shoulder instinctively, and his arm looped around Henry’s waist.

Oh, my stars and garters… The awkwardness mingled with the intimacy and left him so conflicted. Immediately, his brain screamed at him He’s still a child! but his body protested the very thought of ushering him out of his bed and denying himself the cozy languor of being wrapped up in those long limbs, one leg of which was pressing itself between his knees, its slender ankle buffeting his feet. Every time Henry shifted to work himself loose, Remy rubbed up against him or caressed him lazily, which was …undoing him. 

An angry, insistent erection sprang up between his thighs, and Henry groaned miserably. Damn it. “Remy…were you having another nightmare?”

“Mm-hm.” More nuzzling, and for the sake of his own sanity Henry had to grasp his hand to hold it still when he errantly found his nipple.

“Then let’s get up and make some hot milk.”

“Kitchen’s cold,” Remy complained sleepily. Henry tried to wrest himself free from his embrace, but it was difficult when the young man felt so good pressed against him. “You’re nice and warm,” he pointed out, his voice almost a purr. Arousal stabbed at Henry’s gut. He squirmed slightly, and Remy took that as an invitation to kiss the back of his neck.

“Remy…please. You’re going to have to stop that, and sleep in your own bed. Be a good boy.”

“I’m a good boy,” Remy protested. “See?” His fingers were combing through his fur again, and Henry suddenly smelled a sharp, tangy scent of increased pheromones that mingled with Remy’s natural aroma.

“Remy…you’re too young to be here with me in my bed. In anyone’s bed. It’s…unseemly.” That opened Remy’s eyes and stilled his hands, much to Henry’s relief, and disappointment.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s not hurting anyone.”

“It’s hurting you. I won’t take advantage of the situation, young man. I’m your teacher and your guardian. I’m older than you. You’re just a child, and it’s inappropriate to-“

“I’m not a child,” Remy snapped as he propped himself on his elbow. Henry turned and rolled to his back to look up at him. Remy’s ruby eyes glowed down upon him, full of frustration. Henry was transfixed by their radiance; they seemed to tug at him.

“At seventeen, aye, lad, you are,” Henry argued. “You may feel grown, but you’re still going through changes. In here, and in here, where it counts, you’re still a boy.” Henry gently touched Remy’s temple and then laid his pawlike hand over Remy’s chest.

“I have a man’s body,” Remy informed him, “and a man’s needs, Henry.”

“I can’t do anything to help you with those needs, Remy.”

“Then what about your needs?” Remy murmured. He reached down and covered Henry’s hand with his, where it covered Remy’s heartbeat. The glow in his eyes intensified, almost dizzying to look at. The tenor of Remy’s voice changed, growing deeper, silkier and more hypnotic. He didn’t fully realize what he was doing, but Remy felt Henry’s heat and smelled his intoxicating scent, and he was so aroused by his presence and virility that he would do anything to claim it. Henry’s fingers flexed against Remy’s chest, then gently scraped its smoothness with his shining claws, making the younger man shiver. “Tell me what you need, Henry,” Remy rumbled, closing the distance between them as he leaned down to him. His hair tented their faces as he brushed his lips against Henry’s in a tentative, tender kiss. 

A voice inside Henry’s heart cried out to him, You can’t let him do this!, but his touch was gentle and sensuous, and Henry, admittedly, was lonely. Intimacy wasn’t something he had time for nor the opportunity to invest himself in as the head of their meager household, and a man of his bestial demeanor didn’t often encounter partners who had a taste for fur and fangs. His breathing quickened at the brush of Remy’s hair feathering over his cheeks and chest, and he felt Remy’s heartbeat as he rolled over him, pressing his chest against him. He made fleeting contact with Henry’s nipple, grazing it, and that soft, full mouth was teasing him, coaxing him to return the greeting. Henry’s leonine lips emitted a low growl but pushed back up at him, and his tongue lapped up a hint of Remy’s flavors, and with his next kiss Remy slid over him fully, engulfing him in his heat.

Tell me what you need, Henry. Henry forgot about his shame over his nudity as the slick cotton of Remy’s sleeping britches rubbed over his hardness, a too-thin barrier between their straining cocks. Remy was moaning at how sumptuous and lush Henry’s fur felt against his skin, caressing him all over every time he squirmed and arched into him. Henry’s fingers tangled into Remy’s hair, combing through it, wrapping it around his fist to jerk his head back. Remy gasped as Henry laved his sensitive throat, lapping at his pulse.

“Please, Henry,” Remy breathed. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Please don’t stop.” Remy’s palm ran over his chest, finding his nipple. He teased it, tugging on it, and Henry guided his head down, encouraging to breathe over it and suckle it. Remy eagerly complied, and his hips ground him down against the insistent hardness poking up at him. Henry tasted succulent and hot, and he craved more of the stimulating sensations, unsure of where they were taking him. Henry was caught up in the fog of Remy’s emotions, nervous, excited, and completely overwhelmed. He didn’t know where he ended and Remy began, but his heart nearly stopped at the feel of Remy’s untrained fingers reaching between his legs, wrapping around his swollen flesh. “You’re so hard…”

Henry bucked, thrusting up into that sweet grip, and his growl was hoarse and desperate. “Did that hurt?” Remy worried.

“No…but…you’re killing me…” Henry’s eyes snapped open from his haze of lust, and at once he saw Remy’s trepidation and the fear that comes with youth.

That dashed a bucket of ice water over him and brought him back to his senses. He looked Remy in the eye and saw their strange hypnotic…pulse. Henry shook himself and rolled them to their sides. He disentangled himself reluctantly from Remy and sat up. Remy saw his fur bristling as he straightened himself out, and he was confused and hurt.

“You’ve bewitched me, Remy. I’m very upset with you.”

“Henry…I didn’t mean it.”

“No. You did. You heard me clearly when I said it wasn’t right for me to be with you like this.”

“But I was lonely. You were lonely, too.”

“I didn’t tell you that in so many words,” Henry pointed out. “You found that out without my permission.” Remy frowned.

“But…I just felt you…”

“Without my permission. Remy, I know you have an amazing gift.” Henry heaved a sigh. “But you can’t misuse it, or use it to make people do what you want them to. It’s wrong. It may seem like the easy way to get what you want, but you could never live with yourself if you treated someone you cared about like toys. People aren’t meant to be controlled, Remy.”

Tears shone in his eyes, and suddenly he looked like a forlorn little boy again, making their position all the more unnatural and untenable. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Henry. It was wrong. I’m so sorry.” His face was stricken and any semblance of passion left him. He struggled out from under the covers and was up in a shot. Henry tried to catch him long enough to set things right, but he was gone in a flash.

“Shit.” Henry was still uncomfortably engorged; his member jutted up at him accusingly. “Oh, will you calm down!” he snapped as he propelled himself from bed. He reached for a soft pair of flannel drawers and tugged them on haphazardly before he followed the sounds of Remy’s uneven steps and gasping, low sobs.

When he found him in the kitchen, Remy hadn’t lit the kettle or done anything else to warm himself. He hugged himself and leaned back against the wall, staring into the darkness. Henry sighed. “Maybe this is a discussion we should have had before now, Remy.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have to. Let me put the kettle on.”

“I’ll go back to bed.”

“Only when this is settled.”

Henry guided him to a chair and nudged him into it, earning himself an indignant glare; Henry mentally chuckled. He had it coming, he supposed. “You ambushed me.”

“I was lonely.”

“Next time wait until I have one some pajamas. I was indisposed, Remy.” Henry gathered up the cups and heated the milk. “Remy, you’re young and attractive. You have needs. I understand that. And you’ve grown very comfortable with me. We’ve all lived under the same roof for a long time, and it may seem…trifling… to observe some of the niceties and social graces with the people you consider your family.” Henry took a breath. “But I can’t… I won’t be your lover.”

“I don’t care that you’re a man,” Remy snapped.

“That’s not the issue. Heavens, boy, I have nothing against your gender, or of you pursuing any man or woman you like, if you find yourself drawn to them. But this is a matter of respect. Don’t manipulate me, or anyone else that you want to be close to. Let them come to you. Let them get to know the real you. I do already, but as I told you… I’m older than you, Remy. Set in my ways. And I’ve spent too much time… I can’t explain it. Remy… I want to protect you. I’ve come to think of you as someone I care for, but not as a mate. I love you, but not in the manner that you hoped. I’m sorry.”

“So what I did was wrong.”

“What I almost allowed you to do would have ruined us both, Remy.”

“But did I make you feel good?” he pressed. Henry’s cheeks flushed, and his erection returned to half-mast, remembering Remy’s hesitant touch. Henry squelched it and cleared his throat.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we talk about your nightmare. That’s why you came to me?” Remy nodded, relieved that he’d get that much from him, at least. They chatted over hot milk and tea. Remy went back to his own bed somewhat reluctantly but returned to an easier sleep. Henry, on the other hand, stayed awake from a combination of regret, sexual frustration, and fear over Remy’s continued trauma.

 

*

“Dougie’s here.”

“Bet Rahne’s all over herself by now.”

“That’s no bet,” Warren flipped back, rustling his feathers. “How long are you going to be out here?”

“Not too much longer.”

“You smell a bit ripe.”

“I’ll make friends with a tub and a bar of soap. No harm done.”

Secretly, Warren liked the smell of Remy’s sweat, mingled with the scent of horsehide and fresh hay. “Damn shirt,” Remy muttered. He tugged at the collar of it with distaste.

“Then take it off,” Warren shrugged absently, but there was a gleam in his eye and a flutter of excitement jumped into his belly. Remy huffed, turning around finally. His grin was lopsided.

“You were just telling me I needed a bath. Not much need to take anything off til I get back inside.”

“Don’t wear that thing back inside. It stinks.” Remy sighed in mild annoyance.

“Whatever.” With that, he turned away again and yanked the shirttails from the waist of his battered black trousers, unbuttoned the collar, and tugged the offending garment off in one smooth motion. Warren nearly fainted.

Remy’s back. It left him speechless. Remy’s skin was still creamy and fair from the long winter spent mostly inside, but it glowed with his sweat and the flush of hard work. His body was a melody of sinewy, graceful muscle thanks to half a lifetime of chores, building, hunting and riding. The absence of the shirt allowed Warren a clearer, unimpeded view of Remy’s bottom, lovingly sculpted, rounded and firm in the plain black pants. When Remy turned around, he asked Warren, “Hand me that towel?” Warren obediently tossed it at him, and Remy dried the sweat from his brow and the back of his neck. “Where’s Ororo?”

“Flying.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe later.”

“Last of the good light’s gonna be gone soon,” Remy muttered, but he shrugged. He mopped away a patch of sweat beneath his eye with his thumb and fanned his face. Warren’s lips twitched. He expanded his wings and gave them several broad, sweeping flaps. Remy groaned in satisfaction, thankful for the cool drafts of air against his feverish skin.

His look of rapture undid Warren again, and a frisson of arousal bloomed in his groin.

Warren cleared his throat; watching Remy had distracted him. “You almost done?”

“In a little while.” Remy checked the mare’s shoe for stones. He rubbed her legs down with the towel and peered back up at Warren when he felt him watching him so intently. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…nothing.”

“Hand me that canteen?” Remy smiled gratefully when Warren obliged him, taking the canteen from his grip. His fingers brushed Warren’s inadvertently, and Warren’s cheeks flushed a furious scarlet. “What?” Remy asked again. “You hot?”

“Er…no?”

“Shouldn’t be. Not like you’ve been doing anything all day, anyway.” That snapped Warren from his reverie. Remy’s eyes twinkled at him mischievously as he took a sip.

“Not like I’ve…what! Don’t EVEN tell me I haven’t done anything! I haven’t been playing in horse droppings all morning!” Remy snorted, eliciting a similar response from the mare beside him.

“So what kind have you been playing in?” Warren picked up the towel, twisting it up. Remy jumped back, grinning, as Warren coiled it with a determined look.

“I’ll show you what kind!” SNAP! Remy barely missed the end of the towel as it cracked through the air. Warren chased him around the crowded stable, unhampered by his broad wings. The chase Remy led him on upended a bench and knocked over pails, spilling their contents onto the straw. Remy snickered as he darted in and out of the empty stables, making the horses snort in disgust from behind the walls. He evaded Warren again, briefly, until he tripped over the handle of the fallen shovel. He yelped at the stinging snap of the towel across his rear. He spun around to face Warren’s smug look, not liking the hint of danger in his blue eyes.

“That smarts!”

“Awwww…” Warren told him, completely unsympathetic. “Want me to kiss it and make it better?” This time Remy flushed, struck speechless. It was a meaningless jibe, but it evoked images in his brain that made him feverish. Remy’s empathic shields that he imposed on himself to leash his abilities slipped a little, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel the intent behind the blond’s words.

Lust.

Remy’s stomach clenched and his breath hitched. Before he could say anything else, Warren caught up to him and snapped him again with the towel. That shocked him back to normal, or at least a nodding semblance of it… “normal” was a relative term in the cottage, not one that belonged in Remy’s lexicon. That sent them back on their chase through the stable. Warren’s sniggers followed him, mingling with his own as he raised his shields again.

He had to be imagining it.

That was the only reasoning he would accept. Warren was like a brother to him in all the ways that mattered. The two boys shared a bedroom for a handful of years, becoming close confidants almost immediately.

*

Warren understood Remy’s trauma well, including the effects it had on him. Remy’s nightmares frequently woke him from his own troubled sleep. Often Warren was the one to head to the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea or to heat up warm milk, bringing it back to their room despite Betsy’s rule against food and drinks leaving the dining room.

They would sit up on Remy’s bed and talk throughout the night until they both grew drowsy. Warren never belittled Remy’s fears or night terrors, and Remy took refuge in his sympathy, and in his comforting body heat when Warren offered to let him share his hammock. Remy looked at him oddly and huffed the first time he ever made the offer.

“There isn’t enough room in it for me. Your wings would get in the way.”

“No they won’t,” Warren argued. He was already tugging him along to climb in beside him, and it was a struggle, but Remy put aside the awkwardness of it as he eased himself against him gingerly, feeling Warren stretch and rearrange his wings to accommodate him. Warren unfurled them and tucked Remy in, blanketing him in warmth, and Warren smiled with satisfaction as he heard his sigh of satisfaction at how soft his down felt. Warren’s skin was warm and smooth, and Remy let his limbs go lax as he settled against him, allowing him to embrace him and stroke his long chestnut hair.

Neither boy quite understood the physical changes happening in their bodies at that point, as they were both young, innocent and untried, despite their circumstances and near brushes with being violated or worse. It was instinctive to bundle together at night, and theirs was a chaste bond, for the most part, but Warren’s body’s reactions to holding Remy so close were confusing at best, and at worst, kept him awake with the desire to do more than stroke his hair. Remy misinterpreted his emotional discomfort as fear of his own nightmares, and he in turn laid a gentle, psychic “hush” over him, gave him a brief peck and urged him to sleep.

When they awoke sprawled together in odd tangles, Remy often found himself at a…distinct disadvantage. The first time he stirred awake to find himself on top of Warren, that was awkward enough, but the blond’s long, muscular thigh was pressed between his, and Remy had kept moving against him restlessly while they slept, burrowing the knob of his manhood into Warren’s inviting heat and solid bulk. He scurried out of the hammock, nearly flipping them both out of it, and Warren woke scowling at him like a wet cat, completely confused. Remy’s cheeks flamed scarlet when he noticed that Warren was in much the same state, with a telltale bulge in his soft muslin drawers that he slept in.

*  
Remy couldn’t, or wouldn’t accept that the clandestine flash from Warren was more significant. Things weren’t any different between them. He let the thought distract him enough that he tripped over a stray pail and crashed into a pile of clean, loose straw. He was thankful that it wasn’t from inside the stalls…

Warren barreled into him, unable to stop short, knocking him over, and both of them hit the ground with an “oof!” Dazed, they stared at each other. Remy spat something out of his mouth in annoyance, initially thinking it was a bit of hay, but it was one of Warren’s loose pinfeathers. Warren chuckled. “Told you I’d get you.”

“Idiot.”

“Slowpoke.”

They sighed, almost in unison. Warren picked a bit of straw from Remy’s hair, and he laughed again when Remy gave him a rough shove. He took umbrage by picking up a handful of hay this time and dumping it on top of his head instead, and that instigated a wrestling match on the cold, cluttered floor of the stable. They buffeted each other, and again, it was rough, unrestrained contact, jabbing and tickling each other, both young men grabbing at each other’s wrists and elbowing each other. Warren lost momentum when Remy’s knee caught him in the groin, and the brunet rolled him to his back, a position that left him vulnerable, since it hindered the mobility of his wings. He grunted and struggled uncomfortably, and amusement warred with annoyance in his handsome face.

“Let me up, you bastard!”

“Gotta take it back, what you said about me playing in shit,” Remy said simply. There was a devilish gleam in his red eyes. Warren’s wrists were pinned over his head by Remy’s strong, slightly callused hands, and his long hair hung down around his face, its long tendrils tickling Warren’s face. The pose made Warren’s shoulder muscles sting with cramps as he struggled, but he was enjoying the vantage point of Remy practically sitting on his lap, his lean – and bare – chest heaving with his labored breaths and the occasional huff of laughter.

He felt a slight twitching beneath him where Warren’s flesh was hardening and throbbing, coming awake with their prolonged contact, and Remy was embarrassed when he realized that his own body had the same ideas. Blazing heat suffused his loins and every drop of blood in his body rushed to that pulsing, damnable organ between his legs, and his smile slowly faded when Warren’s hips thrust up at him with a halfhearted effort to buck Remy off of him. It just made the problem worse…

“Get off,” Warren repeated, but there was little heat in his voice. He continued to struggle.

“Say pretty please.”

“There’s nothing pretty about you. You’re filthy and you stink to high heaven.”

“You do, too, now.”

“Bastard,” Warren sputtered, and he nearly worked his arm loose from his grip, but Remy’s fingers tightened around his wrist, and he grinned smugly again.

During the course of their play, and perhaps their position was to blame, Remy let his shields slip again, and he felt Warren again unhindered. He sucked in a shaky breath as his emotions hit him like horse’s hooves, and his arousal spiked, making his head spin.

“Damn it,” Remy muttered. He was floored. He stared down at him accusingly. “What did you just do to me?”

“Nothing,” Warren argued. “You did it to me.” He ceased his struggles, but his eyes were still defiant. “This isn’t my fault.” Remy opened his mouth to call him a liar, but he realized Warren was right. Remy’s sense of caution warred with his body’s arousal and the stimulus of Warren’s firm heat beneath him, the way he swallowed roughly and clenched his fingers in frustration, making the veins and tendons in his wrist bulge in Remy’s grip. Warren licked his lips, preparing to say something else, but Remy silenced any further attempts when he dipped his head and captured Warren’s mouth with his own. He felt Warren’s sharp intake of breath and heard his low whimper, sighing with satisfaction as Warren’s lips gently pressed up against his. They parted, and Remy’s eyes dilated as Warren leaned up and kissed him again, taking his sweet time about it, really, shameless thing that he was…

Remy’s grip on his wrists was still steady but relaxed, turning into a contemplative caress as his thumbs traced Warren’s rapid, throbbing pulse. Warren’s legs went limp, and he stopped trying to buck his roommate off, instead letting his hips jerk of their own volition, bringing him closer to the addictive hardness between Remy’s legs. Their breathing quickened, becoming harsh and hot as Warren teased the seam of his lips, and he groaned with pleasure as Remy opened for him. He prized his hand free and caught Remy’s hair at his nape, bunching it up in his fist, and he yanked it back enough to bare Remy’s neck for his inspection. Remy hissed slightly in surprise at the brief hint of pain, but he moaned when Warren traced the underside of his chin with feathery kisses, then lapped at his pulse with warm, raspy tongue. Remy shivered and felt fireworks going off in his brain, right before it turned to goo.

The tide turned, and Warren felt Remy’s body relax against him completely, and it was a decadent sensation, one that felt even better when he rolled them over to free his wings from their cramped flattening. He unfurled them over the two of them, and Remy smiled up at him mischievously, no longer contrite about their predicament. Warren’s wings enclosed them both as he kissed him again, and Remy’s arms wrapped tightly around his narrow waist as they gave the passion between them its head. The winds overhead changed, buffeting the roof of the stable.

Remy moaned as Warren’s hands roamed over his body, stroking his feverish skin. He found and teased his nipple, grazing it with his fingertip. Warren was aroused by the sight of Remy’s head thrown back in bliss. His red-on-black eyes cracked open and peered up at him. He was flush with desire. “Take that thing off.” Warren complied, letting Remy remove his shirt, sliding it down his lean, muscular arms. Warren’s body was taut and almost completely devoid of fat, and his muscles were elegantly streamlined and contoured. Remy traced them with his warm palms and drew Warren down for more deep, exploring kisses, reveling in their skin-on-skin contact that no longer felt “brotherly.” Warren’s tongue caressed his wantonly while his hands fumbled with Remy’s pants, undoing the ties and buttons.

“What are you doing?” Remy husked.

“I want to touch you,” Warren complained, “but you’re wearing too many damn clothes.” Remy nodded as he leaned up to nip Warren’s lip, then both of them moaned as they kissed again. He manhandled Remy free of the fastenings, exposing his flat, perfect belly and the fine trail of auburn hair that led to his crotch. Remy grinned up at him.

“Need any help?”

“You tell me if I need any help.” Warren snorted and poked him, but his smile was wicked as he leaned down and lapped at Remy’s nipple. Remy ached up into the sensation, grasping Warren’s head to hold him there until Warren took his hand away, pinning both of his hands above his head. Remy moaned and bucked as Warren toyed with the straining, tingling nubs, moving from one to the other as he devoured them

They initially ignored the faint thud on the roof, and the faint squeal of a metal hinge as the lock on the skylight was undone. But they broke the kiss at the sound of a slight swoosh and the clatter as the skylight swung open, and a great gust of fresh air swept Ororo inside through the roof. She landed in a patch of sunlight dappling the floor, and her eyes were still glowing white as she stared down at the two of them. Her mouth dropped open in shock. 

“Oh,” she whispered. She clapped her hands over her mouth, and her eyes shifted back to their customary blue. Warren and Remy struggled apart, and Remy rose to his feet first, but his legs felt like noodles from their prolonged time on the floor. Remy held out his hands helplessly, but his pants refused to cooperate with him, since they were still unfastened. They fell down around his knees, and his jutting erection was free for all to see. Warren’s eyes widened, and he grabbed up a shirt – his shirt – from the ground and held it up as a shield for Remy’s nudity while he rearranged himself. 

“Ororo…it’s not…”

“It’s not what?” Warren asked defensively. He glanced up at Ororo as Remy belatedly helped him to his feet. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No,” Ororo agreed, but her eyes shone with tears. “Please…excuse me.” She turned on her heel and sprinted out of the stable, and Remy stared after her in dismay.

“What just happened here?”

“We just got caught. I’m not sure why.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know why?” Warren’s feathers were ruffled, both literally and figuratively. 

“She saw us kissing,” Remy told him. “Warren…”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not with the kissing itself,” Remy said. “Just how she feels about it.” Remy finally managed to re-tie his pants. He felt ashamed and frustrated and didn’t know what to do about it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s complicated. Where’s my damn shirt?” He rummaged through the straw, then headed back to the stall where he was working when Warren interrupted him. Remy’s cheeks heated with shame as Ororo’s flagging emotions receded from his consciousness the further she ran from the stable.

She was so confused, but even worse was how badly she felt Remy and Warren both hurt her. Remy wanted to throw himself into a lake. Coupled with that realization was the strange way Warren closed himself up, as if Ororo’s discovery shook him, too.

*  
Logan could have sworn his coffee cup had more in it the last time he’d checked. He looked up from the book he was reading and reached for it, then frowned when he saw that it was lower. He grunted, then took a sip of the mellow, hickory scented brew. A minute later, his musings were disturbed by a low, smothered giggle. 

The barest hint of a smile cracked through his stoic expression, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye to his cup, and once again, a sneaky thief had dipped into it and run off with a swallow or two of the brew. Logan clapped his book shut and growled, “Who’s been eating my porridge?” in the most guttural, menacing tone he could manage. More of the choked little giggles emanated from behind the fainting couch as he got up and started stomping around the library. “And who’s been sleeping in my bed?”

He pretended not to know where the incriminating sounds were coming from, even though he could smell the soap his daughter’s governess used for her bath and the residual hint of gingersnap cookie crumbs on her hands. “I know what to do to porridge-stealing, bed-sleeping, coffee-guzzling little girls! WAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!” The giggles turned into full-fledged, shrill squeals as he suddenly shoved aside the couch and pounced on his little culprit. Logan scooped her up and swung her up into the air. Her cheeks grew rosy from her laughter and from her father’s tosses. She loved the rough-and-tumble play and when he would act out his occasionally scary fairy tales. He continued to growl at her, but it was less menacing when he kept blowing raspberries under her ear and tickling her armpit. “A little girl gobbled my porridge!”

“No I didn’t, Daddy!” she insisted, trying to push his face away when he made gobbling sounds against her cheek. “I just drank your coffee!”

“AHA!” he crowed. “I KNEW it!” She realized her error and tried to bolt when he set her down, but he caught her again and tickled her again.

It was the high point of his day. Laura was his reason for getting up in the morning, and she had him wrapped around her tiny finger. At the age of five, her life was relatively uncomplicated and as comfortable as her father and grandfather could make it. She was her father’s child, through and through, complete with his mischief streak and talent for getting dirty. Her governess had her hands very full, and keeping her neatly groomed was a hopeless endeavor. If stomping through the marsh looking for frogs in her best tea gown wasn’t princesslike behavior, then she didn’t want to be a princess, Laura decided.

But he adored her. Laura AnnaRose was Logan’s spitting image, except that she had her mother’s creamy complexion and dimpled, beautiful smile. Her glossy black hair was always unraveling itself from her plaits and her blue eyes twinkled dangerously whenever she found some trouble to get into. She was petite but sturdy and had apples in her cheeks. She loved horses and most animals, and she enjoyed sketching in messy charcoals on her father’s scrap paper. Unfortunately, she had a fondness for Logan’s morning cup of coffee, and the results of her thievery meant a considerable delay in her afternoon nap.

He doted on her and was protective of her. Logan never fell in love again after his wife passed, and he avoided the casual affairs his peers enjoyed, since he didn’t want entanglements and he believed in discretion. Prospective lovers often came with a price tag attached that he wouldn’t indulge or tolerate. His previous partners of either gender, from his bachelorhood, tried to entice him back once his wife died, but none of them appealed to him. Anyone who would love him would also have to love his daughter, accepting that she came first in his life, and that was a definite obstacle in beginning any relationship.

Logan looked back on Jean-Luc’s loss, and he considered the family dynamic between the man and his son and second wife. Logan occasionally ran into Raven at court, and he still wasn’t impressed. What awed him, however, was that she never seemed to age. She possessed a sharp, gossiping tongue and drank too heartily of red wine at supper, no matter who hosted the balls and gatherings they attended. Jean-Luc paid her little mind, and Logan wondered if he treated her indiscretions with the same disregard.

Raven’s lady’s maid, Irene, often hovered by her elbow to attend her whims, and Logan was amused at how sedate and calm she was. Her tendency to look through him when he spoke with her politely still made him shiver, since she was completely blind. She still walked ably, sensing all of the obstacles in her path, no matter how unfamiliar her environment was. Logan had no inkling that Irene used her gift to see a room or street the way it appeared to her in her visions before she even set foot into the reality. It was uncanny.

He still thought about the lost prince, musing on what kind of young man he would have become. The memory of the painting haunted him, as well as the memorial service. Jean-Luc kept it in his study, but a dark shroud was draped over it to preserve the oil paints and protect it from dust.

Laura poked him, disturbing his musings.

“Papa, I’m hungry.”

“But you already gobbled up my porridge,” he teased, kissing her soft cheek.

“No, I didn’t!” she insisted again. “I don’t like porridge.”

“Coffee isn’t a good dinner for little girls, either,” he chided. “Let’s see Cook about something to eat.” He hefted her up on his hip and carried her to the kitchen; she clung to him like a little monkey, enjoying her higher vantage point and the faint scent of her father’s soap and tobacco. Logan felt no compunction about smoking his pipe at any hour of the day. He used to carry her on his shoulder until she grew too big, and her governess would scold him about the “unladylike” arrangement of her skirts that resulted from it.

She was overdressed, in his opinion. Nanny chose a lovely dress of aqua wool with a richly embroidered overskirt and flounced, leg of mutton sleeves, but it was too fancy for a regular afternoon when they had no other engagements.

Logan took Laura into the kitchen, where Cook greeted him in surprise.

“Sire, do you need anything? Was breakfast to your liking?”

“It’s time for tea,” he explained pleasantly. “This one just stole my coffee.”

“Our lady is a naughty one,” she agreed, chuckling. She reached out and tweaked Laura’s nose fondly, and she squirmed back, giggling. “Tea it is. I have some nice vanilla biscuits, sire, and some finger sandwiches, a Waldorf salad, and some sliced roast? Will that do?”

“Nicely,” he told her. Logan didn’t believe in putting his staff out, and they were glad to serve him in any way, wanting to please him even more because of his genial manner and respectful attitude toward them. But he still helped his father run a tight ship, and he didn’t suffer poor performance from workers who thought they would just live plush or steal from the palace. Thieves were dealt with swiftly and with dire consequences, sending the message that the Howletts weren’t to be trifled with.

He sat with his daughter in the sun-filled breakfast nook and enjoyed a tea party, one of the only feminine activities his daughter enjoyed. Her governess felt it helped her to practice her etiquette, and secretly, that it improved her future king’s, too.

“Would you like a lump of sugar, Daddy?” She’d already dropped four of them into his cup, and Logan would gag if he had to drink another sip of the viciously sweet tea, but his daughter enjoyed using the small silver tongs.

“Why, yes, thank you, milady,” he replied, holding out the delicate china cup. Dutifully, she dropped in another cube, and he mentally winced as he stirred it.

“Can we go riding, Daddy?”

“Not right now, sweetheart.” That earned him a pout, and her little shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“But I want to ride with you!” The deep pink lower lip quivered dangerously, but Logan held up a finger in warning and eyed her sternly, putting her back in line.

“Not now, Laura. After your nap and your lessons are over, we can ride. I need to meet with Mr. North.” Christopher North was the head of his security squad that protected the land surrounding the palace, driving out bandits and poachers from his woods to secure his borders.

“But I hate-“

“No. What do we say it’s not wrong to do?”

“I don’t get to say I hate anything,” she grumbled as she stared down into her lap. She looked more dejected at the scold than she was at having her trek with her father denied. “Because it’s not nice.”

“Correct.”

“I don’t like my lessons, and I don’t want a nap!” she pronounced crisply.

“Learning your lessons is what I expect of you, Laura. Doing your school work is your job, and helping your grandfather look after the palace is mine. If I didn’t do my job, what would happen?” She shrugged, but Logan beckoned for her to meet him at his seat. She hopped down from hers and stomped over, but he tutted, shaking his head. She adjusted her posture and finished walking over nicely. Logan took her tiny hands and spoke to her soberly. “Someone has to keep the castle safe. If I didn’t do my job, the servants would do their jobs. The soldiers wouldn’t have anyone to give them orders, the huntsmen wouldn’t go hunting, and Cook wouldn’t cook. The pages wouldn’t get their knight’s training outside and the horses wouldn’t get their oats. Things would be a big mess if all I did was go riding and hunting and have fun all day, sweetheart, even if being a prince is hard work.” She groaned and looked away. “Laura. Look at me.” She faced him, and she still looked disappointed, but he saw an inkling of understanding in her eyes.

“I want to stay with you, Daddy.” She combed her fingers through his sideburns and burrowed her way into his arms. “And I don’t need a nap.”

“I beg to differ.” Laura had her father’s temper when she grew tired, and a cranky princess was a difficult princess. “Lessons first. Then a nap. If you still want to go riding after that, then we’ll go for a little while before supper.”

“But, Daddy…”

“No buts. If you want me to take you later, you’d better get rid of that pout and give me a kiss, and tell me you love me,” he said simply. She straightened up and dutifully kissed his cheek.

“I love you.”

“I love you.” She scampered off, and Logan called for one of the maids to remove the tea. She mercifully dumped out the oversugared one and poured him a fresh cup.

*

When Victor rode up to the cottage, he almost didn’t recognize it. There was a new fence around it and a second level had been built, including a loft. The stable was also larger and refurbished, and there was a wagon parked beside it. Victor felt foolish; they were no doubt having company for supper. He was at a loss. But he remembered Cerebra’s words to him and how imperative it was to protect him, something he’d failed to do so long ago. He wouldn’t fail Prince Remy again, even if it meant he suffered the consequences himself. Victor tethered Brutus to a tree, not wanting to impose for the time being on Henry’s hospitality, and he mastered himself, contemplating what to say.

Before he could mentally compose a greeting, someone came out from the cottage’s back door, and his breath hitched. He heard low, melodic humming in a smooth, skilled baritone, underscored by booted feet tramping through the melting snow. Victor’s fists balled themselves at his side and he stiffened. That voice…it was immediately familiar to him, so much like Jean-Luc’s, and he remembered hearing him whistle that same tune in the library when he hunted through the shelves for his favorite books.

His feet plodded forward without his permission, following the sound of that singing and the low squeal of a bucket pulley. Victor felt his chest tighten with emotion and his heart started to pound. It couldn’t be…

He let himself in through the gate quietly, leaving it slightly ajar, and he padded into the spacious garden, ignoring the impressive assortment of plants that were working themselves back up through the snow with new green shoots and tendrils. He peered around the corner of the cottage, propping himself up against it for strength, since his knees buckled in surprise.

The young man’s back was to him, but Victor recognized the long, thick, gleaming chestnut braid immediately. The lad was anything but, now easily taller than Jean-Luc, something he noticed even though Remy was leaning over the well as he turned the crank. Victor heard the low splash as the bucket hit the water, and Remy’s humming was echoing back up to him. Victor watched him work, awed at the broad, well-muscled back straining the seams of a filthy muslin shirt. His guess had been correct, then, he mused in dismay: Remy was living like a pauper. It was all Victor’s fault. Guilt stabbed at him, but he tried to put it aside as he treated himself to a long look at the king’s only son.

His ass was ripe, round and tight, also straining the dark trousers he wore, and Victor felt lust suffuse him, engorging his cock. Heat licked over him, flushing his face and making him anxious. The reaction in his body to Remy shocked him, and made him so guilty he wanted to fall in shame, face to the ground.

Remy pulled up the bucket, setting it down long enough to transfer it into the large pail he’d brought with him. He dipped a tin cup into it and refreshed himself, draining it thirstily. He turned, and Victor gasped at the sight of him. He was the spitting image of Jean-Luc and Natalie, achingly handsome and strapping, elegantly built and fit from his simple, hardworking lifestyle. His skin was still creamy and flawless, but he had a hint of dark stubble along his jaw, those whiskers telling Victor that the lad had come of age some time ago. There was a sprinkling of dark hair peeking over the gap in his shirt where the collar was unbuttoned, and the garment had patches of sweat, making him seem even more virile and masculine to Victor’s gaze.

His hair was messy, stray strands hanging down around his face that he batted from his eyes impatiently. His chest was splotched with sweat and dirt, and Victor sucked in a breath at the stiff peaks of his nipples, barely visible through the thin fabric of the shirt. His fingers itched with the urge to touch them, until he remembered his station and who this young man was to him. But he was in awe of his beauty, how he’d ripened and matured over the years, how he now stole his breath.

He must have made a small sound, because Remy became aware of his presence. Red-on-black eyes swung his way, probing his blue ones. Remy froze, and the cup dropped with a low clink onto the paver stones beneath his feet. 

“You.”

“Master Remy,” Victor whispered. He stepped forward, wondering why his body felt so numb and light, why the moment felt so unreal. He actually trembled. Remy shook his head in disbelief. Victor winced when he saw Remy cringe back slightly and fear rise in his eyes. He did the only thing that occurred to him in that moment. Victor held up his hands to show him that he had no weapons.

“Why did you call me that?” Remy demanded. “I know you. What are you doing here?”

“I…I’ve come t-to…”

“We might be a ways out from the village, but this is still private property. You’re trespassing,” Remy accused. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Because I have, he wanted to tell him. Victor’s throat was closing up, and he felt himself stiffen like a board as Remy strode toward him.

“Out,” he ordered brusquely. “Unless you tell me what business you have on our land.”

“Henry,” Victor grated out. “I’m here to see Henry.” He shivered when Remy grabbed his upper arm with surprising strength, preparing to throw him out. He caught a whiff of his sweat and natural scent, the warm fragrance of his hair and the smell of his breath fanning out over his face. Victor was shocked that he was so bold and forceful with him, unafraid of his size. More startling was that Remy wasn’t that much shorter than he was anymore, easily six-foot-two in his bare feet.

“Henry,” Remy huffed. “He’s in the house. He didn’t say he was expecting any guests.”

“It’s a private matter.”

“Not if it means you’re tramping around in our garden instead of knocking on the front door.” The prince had a point, Victor realized. He cleared his throat. It was growing difficult to breathe around the clogged feeling in his chest and the way his heart was still pounding. Remy felt the giant’s pulse jump, even through his heavy coat. Victor sweated, almost wishing he’d left it behind.

“I heard you whistling. I wondered if you could have been him,” Victor explained hastily.

Remy knew he was lying. He’d gently probed his emotions from the time of his discovery, and the man was too panicked, but more confusing was the lust emanating from him, mingled with guilt.

Well, well.

Remy’s grip was still firm on him, but he noticed the beginnings of a tear welling in Victor’s eye. He frowned at it and reached up to dash it away, out of instinct. He hated to see anyone cry, and definitely not on his account. Victor shivered at his touch, then squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stare into that unsettling red gaze any longer.

“I’m good at telling when someone is lying to me. I don’t have a lot of patience for people who try to fool me. Or who won’t tell me what they’re after,” Remy purred. His voice took on a low burr of sensuality, licking over Victor’s nerve endings. “Why do I feel like I know you?” he mused as he reached up and took Victor’s chin in deft, slim fingers and angled it down to make him look at him. Remy stroked his jaw to feel the rough coat of dark gold stubble that caught the sunlight, revealing lighter blond wicks and bits of gray. The man’s face was handsome with large features, a stubborn jaw and slightly craggy brows, and his skin was weathered and tanned. Long, fine lines striated the corners of his eyes, which looked exhausted and haunted when he finally opened them. He recoiled when it occurred to him how close Remy stood to him, how his hand had slid down his arm to his wrist, wrapped around it snug as a manacle.

Victor’s eyes dilated, and a bolt of arousal struck him like lightning. The lost prince before him looked at him quizzically. “Who are you to me?” Remy demanded.

“No one. But the night I left you, everything went black. I haven’t seen the sun since.” Remy shook his head.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t have any answers, lad,” Victor husked. He couldn’t contain the urge to touch Remy, just to see if he was still real, that he wasn’t dreaming, that this wasn’t a whiskey-fueled delusion or one of the mind-witch’s tricks. He half-expected her to pop out and tear his brain inside-out again. “Forgive me,” he pleaded. Before Remy could object, Victor snaked his arm around Remy’s waist and enveloped him against his bulk. 

Alarms went off in Remy’s head, but he sensed no threat in the man’s intentions, nor any hostility. He couldn’t be demented, he supposed, but what little he’d told him threw him off-balance. His emotions were so raw, though, and they leaked out of him, slowing pulling Remy under.

Guilt. The man was so filled with shame and regret that Remy felt his own eyes prick, and he became fully aware of the man’s grip on him, of his heart pounding so hard that he could almost hear it. There was so much sadness in him, weighing him down for so long that it became his natural state. Victor was a man who had forgotten how to laugh, ironic, somehow, since Remy had an impression of him as being jolly at some point, maybe prior to whatever it was that happened to him…or, whatever sin he’d committed, whatever bend in the road that misled him.

Remy’s arms disobeyed his sense of self-preservation and wrapped around the man’s back, caressing him soothingly. This felt familiar, too, as though he’d comforted him at some point, but he couldn’t figure out why.

Victor wouldn’t weep, even though he was choking on his grief. He shuddered out a heavy breath and just clung to Remy. He was real, and he felt so good, it was such a miracle to hold him and feel the vitality in that young body, the strength, telling him that he’d not only survived, but flourished.

They held each other for long moments, just absorbing each other’s presence and listening to the sounds in the garden; the dripping of melting icicles; birds twittering in Henry’s jasmine bushes despite the fact that they had no blossoms yet; the chatter inside the cottage that they could hear through the wall that led to the kitchen. Remy sensed that this man was once a close friend, someone that he trusted, and he wanted to again. That longing confused him, too, but he accepted the embrace, and felt the man’s relief washing over him, too. “Remy,” Victor whispered.

“It’s all right,” Remy murmured into his neck. Victor stiffened at the brief, warm press of his soft lips against his skin. His body reacted violently to the gesture, and he felt his cock twist beneath his drawers. He was holding him so close, feeling the long, lean body pressed against him fully, and Remy was still stroking his hair and back, enjoying his heat.

Remy was still buzzing with Warren’s leftover lust and the way he’d overloaded his senses, and he still craved that physical contact, but now it had a different subject. He knew he’d felt desire from Victor, too, brief but genuine, and he seemed to be just as ashamed of that, too. Remy followed the instincts of his body and reacted to what he was feeling when Victor’s fingers stroked down his back, blunt fingernails dragging their way down over his spine, and it felt primal, almost wanton. Victor smelled very male and his skin, where Remy had touched it, was hot and firm; his pulse had jumped in his wrist when he grabbed him, and it was racing in his throat, too.

He leaned back from him just enough to stare up into his face, and Victor looked contrite. “Remy,” he mumbled. “I can’t-“

Remy silenced him with a hard kiss that made him stifle a yelp. Their breath mingled hotly and Victor was staggered with the prince’s skilled mouth, the way he crushed his mouth, manipulating it, dominating it until he opened for him. He whimpered in response; the sound was foreign to his own ears. Even Raven had never made him whimper…

Remy’s hand was fisted in Victor’s hair now, tilting his head where he wanted it, angling him to better taste him. His tongue teased the inner seam of Victor’s lips and Victor moaned when he let him inside. He felt him explore him with lapping, velvety strokes while his hands still traveled over his broad back. Alarms in Victor’s head went off…this wasn’t why he came to this neck of the woods…

He didn’t care.

His hands molded Remy’s waist, exploring the firm muscles and heated skin through the rough muslin shirt. He leaned into Remy, backing him up until his rump collided with the edge of the well. He ground himself against him because he couldn’t help it, couldn’t resist the primal pull of the young, muscular body or the way his hands were tugging on him, easing inside his coat. Remy groped him, kneading his generous pectorals and counting his ribs…Victor had grown thinner over the years, still a giant, but he was more drawn. He tugged open one of his shirt’s buttons and slipped his hand inside to stroke his skin, moaning over the crisp mat of hair he found there and the stiff peak of his nipple that strained against his palm.

It was madness. Victor was trapped in the feedback of Remy’s own passion while he drowned in his own, carried away in its tide. It made no sense. The prince had no reason to trust him. He should be prostrate at his feet, since he wasn’t even worthy for the boy to wipe his dirty boots off on his ass. But the siren call of that voice, of that mouth that he was now plundering, sucking on the plump lower lip, draining of its succulent flavors, was undoing him fast.

He felt Remy’s questing hand slide over his rump, molding it, gripping it possessively, and it pushed him over the edge. No one had engaged him in passion for so long, because he wouldn’t open himself up to those feelings anymore, punishing himself with his bleak, despairing lifestyle and self-imposed loneliness. He hungered for that affection without the taint of someone using him for their own purposes or ulterior motives. This was pure. Unspoiled…

 

No.

The prince was pure of heart, no thanks to Victor. Had he not arrived at the Painted Lady in time, Remy would have been ruined, left to live a torrid, hopeless life in a bordello. And he wouldn’t have ended up there in the first place if Victor hadn’t followed Raven’s charade, resulting in a failed attempt on Remy’s life and on the lad being kidnapped.

The gravity of the truth hit him like a hammer, and Victor pushed Remy away roughly. His eyes were blazing, and Remy was breathing hard, gripping the edge of the well for support. Victor caught his arm before he could fall backward into it.

Betsy sailed through the gate, chiding Remy, “Why did you leave this open? You don’t live in a barn, the last time I checked…” Her words evaporated at the sight of the huntsman gripping Remy’s arm, and the two of them looking thoroughly rumpled, shirt buttons unfastened and hair a mad mess.

She hit Victor with a telepathic bolt of energy that knocked him off of his feet. “Betsy, DON’T!” Remy cried, eyes round with horror and confusion as the giant staggered and landed on his back.


	10. Pretty Little Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan’s scouts bring him news of wrongdoing. And Raven finds out Cerebra’s secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the messy inconsistencies, where Raven has Cerebra take her to Hank's cottage, and "forgets" (oops) that she's seen the other occupants already. My bad...

“Sire? Laura’s down for her nap.”

“Thank you, Estelle.” The nanny backed out of the room after a graceful curtsy, and Logan sighed over the loss of his favorite distraction. He couldn’t put off the meeting with North any longer.

Logan didn’t like the local rumblings and the news that came to him in sealed scrolls from his network of officers who patrolled his territories.

Young children were disappearing again, snatched off the streets or taken from their homes in the latest rash of kidnappings. Logan sighed in frustration and outrage. 

The two main objects of his search who dealt in the “flesh trade” were already locked up, thankfully, in a jail and sanitorium, respectively. Sebastian Shaw, who owned the Painted Lady and who was the co-owner of the brothel by the dock, was found incapacitated and subsequently arrested six years ago. He was badly beaten, Logan noticed, and he felt no pity for the man, who had a reputation for unmitigated cruelty and abuse. He dabbled in various crimes, catering to the rich who had a taste for the unusual, particularly young children. The other, Madelyne Pryor, was a madam and proprietor of a large house of ill repute, and many of the ladies of the night who she formerly kept still walked the docks, finally independent or beholden to other “keepers.” She was in equally bad shape, but she wasn’t discovered for several weeks. Several of her employees and prostitutes had been arrested for holding her captive and forcing her to perform lewd acts for the very clients she lured in before. She was a babbling, mad mess when she was carried off in the wagon, nearly nude and filthy, ranting on about “red and black! Like demon’s fire! Devil children! DEVIL CHILDREN IN MY HOUSE!”

What surprised Logan the most was the condition of the house. It looked like it had been a proud structure once, but several of the windows were boarded up, obviously after they were broken. Several of the doors lay hanging from hinges or completely splintered inside, as well; the main one looked as though it had been hastily replaced. Who could have caused such rampant destruction? Moreover, were they still running loose throughout the countryside, or lurking within the village?

Logan thought back to Jean-Luc and his loss. The image of the painting still lingered with him, occasionally haunting him, and he grew slightly melancholy when he watched his daughter play, looking bright and inquisitive, or simply pensive, and that also reminded him of his dear wife. What kind of man would the young prince have become? How could his death have been prevented?

Logan pondered this as his men made their inquiries, and slowly but surely, over the course of the past few weeks, North brought him news of progress. The Painted Lady no longer entertained clients as flagrantly, but there were still places within the village where young flesh was procured steadily, if you knew who to ask.

Jase and Donal. Those were the two Logan focused on, having found out that they both once worked for Shaw as “protection” for his tavern. Both of them had served sentences in the king’s prison for poaching in his woods and blackmailing several families for goods and money. They laid low and conducted their business quietly, but Logan planned to ferret them out.

And if it was necessary, he would put them down like dogs.

*

Victor found himself reliving the night that he lost Remy, albeit less sharply, when Henry showed him to the same guest quarters where Betsy tended him before. But this time, her welcome was much more sour.

“There’s blankets. Chamber pot in the corner, if you don’t want to use the outhouse outside. But feel free to try,” she said flatly. 

“Yer too kind, milady.”

“I’m not your lady,” she snapped.

“No, milady.” He was chagrined, and he winced at her tone and the sparks snapping from her blue eyes.

“You’re a grown man. And everything that happened to that boy was your fault,” she hissed. “How dare you.”

“Aye. But hear me out…”

“There’s nothing you can tell me that will make what I saw all right.”

“Perhaps you didn’t see everything you needed to see.” Victor steeled himself. “If you’d stop bitching at me for five seconds, I could tell you everything.”

“Try.”

“Do what you did before. But be gentler about it.” Victor wasn’t looking forward to opening himself to her psychic abilities. He’d had nightmares for weeks after her last foray into his mind, as though someone turned him inside-out and left his carcass out on the rocks for wolves to chew.

“You realize what you’re asking me.”

“I have no more pride left.” That stunned her.

“You miserable bastard.”

“Do it.” His voice was a hoarse, tired huff, but his eyes hardened resolutely.

“Relax, then.” She nodded for him to follow her to the small table. She sat on the lone chair and beckoned for him to kneel before her, offering him a mere cushion against the discomfort, but he didn’t care. He was too big otherwise for her to reach for him as she placed her fingers at his temples. Her caress was gentle, but he hissed at the sensation of her bypassing his mental defenses. “Close your eyes.”

“All right,” he rasped, and once again, his world was upended as she invaded him.

*

 

Warren laid in his hammock, staring moodily out the window. A heavy rain started falling shortly after supper, ending Douglas’ visit unceremoniously, as his father wanted to get them home before the roads grew slick and muddy, making it difficult for his horses to pull their wagon. He wondered if Ororo was responsible for the change in weather. It often reflected her moods, misty when she was melancholy; sunny when she was happy; pounding rain when she was particularly angry, and heavy snow when she brooded over a bad turn of events. Warren seldom trusted the rain. It also impeded his flights, weighing down his feathers and making it more difficult to maintain his altitude.

“What’s eatin’ you?” Remy murmured from his bed. Warren shifted slightly but didn’t look at him.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t feel like nothing.”

“Okay. So you tell me what’s eating me, then, if you’re so sure.”

“Warren…”

“She was so upset,” Warren mused. 

“What? You mean Betsy?”

“Yes. And no.”

“That doesn’t help.” Remy stared at him in exasperation, red eyes glowing and narrowing at him in the dark. He got up and lit a candle on the vanity and approached Warren. “Look at me, please.”

“Don’t bother. Go to bed, Remy.”

“Warren…don’t do this. I know something’s wrong. I can feel it, and I can’t sleep until we talk about this. All I feel from you is this…confusion. You’re upset.”

“It’s Ororo.” Remy expelled a breath.

“I know. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“We shouldn’t have to do anything!” Warren turned on him and glared up into his handsome face. “We didn’t do anything wrong! I kissed you! I wanted to! I couldn’t help it, Remy. I can’t help what I feel for you.” Remy opened his mouth, but Warren held up a hand to silence him. “I don’t care that you’re a man. I’ve never cared about that.”

“Me, either. I don’t have a problem with that, Warren; you know that. I know how I feel about it. It’s just…”

“What?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How?” Warren was irritated; it was the second time Remy described it that way. It wasn’t complicated to him. “You’re drawn to me. You feel what I feel.”

“My feelings aren’t divided.” Remy eyed him sadly. “Admit it.” Warren bristled at the look of regret that drifted over Remy’s face.

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. Warren…don’t be thick in the head. You’ve noticed it before now. Don’t keep denying that Ororo’s in love with you.” Warren had twisted to adjust himself and to free his wing from a cramp, but at the sound of the word “love,” he overcompensated when he turned and upended himself from the hammock, hitting the floor with a thud.

“OW!”

“Shit,” Remy muttered apologetically. “You okay?”

“No! Of course not! Are you daft?”

“Nope. You might be,” Remy suggested as he reached down to pick Warren up. Warren’s wings rustled in pique and he glared at Remy.

“She doesn’t love me. That’s ridiculous. She doesn’t feel that way.” Warren swallowed. “Not really.

“What do you mean, ‘Not really?’” Remy demanded. “She was hurt. Really hurt. Why do you think it’s pouring down rain outside?” Warren wrinkled his brow and huffed. He took Remy’s hand when he tried to pull it away, and he felt Remy’s pulse jump.

“That’s ridiculous,” he repeated. “Ororo doesn’t love me. You don’t understand.” But Remy felt the change in his emotions, as though Warren were trying to figure out his own feelings, too. He was still in denial, Remy felt the emotions brewing within him, conflicted and frustrated. Warren knew how Ororo felt about him, but he wouldn’t accept it fully. Moreover, Remy knew Warren felt strongly about Ororo, too.

A shiver passed through him at the sensation of lust that swept over him, when he realized it was from Warren.

Well, well… Remy sighed, resigned.

Warren hated the sadness that crept into Remy’s eyes. “I do understand. She does. You’d see it if you tried. Pay attention, Warren.”

“You’ve got my attention,” Warren argued. His voice was husky and tinged with yearning. He tugged on Remy’s hand, tightening his grip on the long, slender fingers. Remy squeezed him back and didn’t shy away when Warren reached out to stroke his hair, letting his fingertips grace his smooth cheek.

“I want you,” Remy murmured, “but not if you want someone else.”

“Remy,” Warren pleaded, shaking his head, but he hedged. His posture was closed and he inched closer to him, not wanting to argue with him. Remy knew Warren’s love for him was genuine.

But the prince in him wouldn’t let Remy settle for sharing anyone’s attentions.

He gave in to Warren’s insistence and leaned in to kiss him, just a gentle caress of the lips. But Warren wasn’t satisfied with just a token, and he took his hand, pulling him against his hard, heated flesh. Remy open his mouth to argue with him, but Warren swallowed his protest, and his fingers bit into his waist, gripping him while he tasted him. Remy groaned at the sensations and the havoc Warren wrought within him, tingling when Warren stroked the seam of his lips with his tongue, teasing him to make him let him inside. Remy obeyed his urge, and the kiss turned hot. His hands stopped fighting Warren, and he stopped pushing him away, instead letting his fingers tangle in his soft blond hair. His arms wound around Warren’s neck, and they stumbled back toward his hammock.

Warren focused only on Remy, his scent and smooth, warm skin, the low grunts and groans of want and the firm nip of his teeth worrying his lower lip. Remy gave back as good as he got, and his hands were all over him, kneading him, tracing the long, elegant line of his spine and combing through Warren’s feathers. Warren shuddered as Remy explored his textures, and his kisses deepened. He was falling over the edge, and the hammock swung dangerously with their momentum as he pulled the young prince beneath him.

Remy grew lost in Warren’s emotions and the heat pulsing through his veins. His manhood throbbed painfully with Warren’s contact and the press of his body as it pushed him back into the hammock’s knotted ropes. Warren was in awe at how beautiful Remy was, a perfect masculine specimen, gracefully formed and nearly naked. He cradled his face in his palms as he lay against him, contemplating his face, which was suffused in passion. “Damn you, Remy…”

“I won’t be a mistake that you make, War. If you love her, tell her.”

“I can’t help what I feel,” he admitted huskily, “and this isn’t a mistake.” He breathed over his lips, nipping at them, sucking on them, groaning at how good he tasted, and Remy tilted his head, guiding him to his vulnerable throat. They teased each other, hands roaming and finding points of pleasure that they couldn’t explore fully in the barn. Warren gasped when Remy’s hands slid over his taut ass, groping it and making him grind against him more firmly, creating friction between them where they craved it most. Warren’s manhood was rock-hard and pulsing, and feeling Remy’s push back at him was undoing him, causing him sweet torture.

He found Remy’s nipple, a sensitive little peak that hardened when he stroked it. Remy arched into his touch and moaned. “Do it again,” he whispered.

“I’ll do anything you want me to,” Warren promised him. “Anything.”

“Then touch me.” Warren’s hands were teasing him, caressing him, but Remy impatiently gripped one and slid it over his hard bulge. He grinned slyly up at him. “Don’t be shy.”

“Who’s shy?” he husked back as he kneaded him, taking advantage of the opportunity Remy offered him, and Remy bucked up into his hand, spreading his legs for more. Passion swept over him in waves, Warren’s as well as his own as their need for each other mingled. Warren fumbled with his drawers and reach inside the flap, and he grasped his heated flesh. Remy felt silky, stiff and hot, and there was a bead of moisture welling in the plump head. His eyes closed in rapture at Warren’s touch. He stroked and pulled at him, mimicking the way he pleasured himself when he was alone, and he was rewarded with the slow arch of Remy’s body. He gripped his shoulders and rode his hand, pumping himself into the ring of his fingers.

Warren couldn’t help himself. He needed to feel him fully, and his drawers were in the way. He levered himself up reluctantly from him and stood, and the motion made the hammock swing with Remy in it. “Shit,” Remy hissed. “What’re you doing, War?”

“Got to get rid of these,” he mumbled as he yanked open the ties. The unnecessary undergarment slid down to his ankles, and Warren stepped out of them. Remy caught his breath. Warren’s naked body aroused him more than he could describe, and his erection was rosy, bobbing and waiting to be stroked. “Take those off.” Remy didn’t waste any time, and he sat up, hating the shift in momentum and the cold floor beneath his bare feet, but he dropped his drawers and beckoned to him. Warren rejoined him, and they eased back into their nest, thrilled to reunite and to satisfy the urge for skin-on-skin. Warren ground himself against Remy, building a rhythm that pleased them both. They kissed and rode each other, caressing and groping feverishly. Remy reached for Warren, stroking his taut sac, but Warren caught his hand.

“Let me.” He grasped Remy’s cock and ringed it in his fist again, but this time he slipped his own into his grip, too, and Warren thrust his hips, let himself slide against him. Remy felt the smooth burn and lost himself in it. Every muscle in his body was a tense knot and he breathed in rough pants, hissing out Warren’s name. Warren’s eyes were closed above him, but his face was suffused with arousal and pleasure, skin flushed and misted with sweat. Their combined musk filled the air, stroking Remy’s senses, and he couldn’t hold it anymore. He reached his peak and fell over the edge as his seed erupted from him, drenching Warren’s belly. His face undid Warren, and he knew that he was in love with him, that Remy claimed his heart as well as his body, that he could affect him so. It moved him to see Remy lost in pleasure from histouch.

Remy shuddered and lay beneath him, panting to catch his breath. Warren collapsed against him, and his hand fumbled between them. “What’s…wrong? War?” he murmured, concerned.

“Nothing. It’s all right.” He noticed Warren’s sheepish smile, but he felt his turmoil and frustration. Remy looked down, and that’s when he saw that Warren was still hard. 

“That’s not all right.”

“It’s…a bit painful.”

“Let me help.”

“Remy-“ He hissed as Remy reached down and took him in an easy grip, pumping him. Warren’s eyes drifted shut in pleasure that curled through him like smoke. Remy’s cock was deflating and sticky, but he didn’t mind it when Warren ground against him hopefully, looking for more. He needed to ease his plight, or the blond would never sleep comfortably.

But it was futile. Remy was exhausted, limp from their exertions and his postcoital languor. Warren tried to meet him halfway, but his own muscles were spent, and he collapsed against him again. “Enough,” he breathed. “It’s all right.” Remy made a noise of frustration as Warren shifted them, easing Remy so that he was spooned behind him. “Give it a rest.”

“I want to please you.” Warren cracked open one eye, and he felt Remy’s disappointment, because the young prince was projecting. He was vulnerable after intimacy, and it was hard to close the channel between them. His emotions were still leaking through.

“You do.”

Remy drifted off to sleep, and he was grateful that Warren’s manhood gradually slept, too, wedged comfortably against the supple curve of his rump. But he was more confused than ever.

*

Upstairs, in her modestly furnished loft, Ororo wept.

“Stupid, stupid!” she insisted hoarsely, digging her nails into her palm with frustration. Damn him. Damn Remy…

He could have anyone he wanted. He was heartbreakingly beautiful and charming, young and eligible, and thanks to Betsy’s intervention, he was free of the memories that would have otherwise scarred him. He could go forward into the world and find his fortune where he wished, and women – and perhaps, men, too, she mused – would flock to him.

He didn’t need Warren.

He was supposed to be hers.

She couldn’t blame Warren for his feelings, that much she knew. She understood his attraction to him, but it made her feel inadequate and bereft. 

She’d always nursed a crush on the blond angel, both for how well he understood her past and how it affected her, and for his sunny personality despite how he’d been treated. Warren knew what it was like to be held captive. Ororo, on the other hand, knew how it felt to be used.

She didn’t remember her mother, not even details like how she smelled or what her voice sounded like, if she ever sang her any lullabies. The various households that Ororo found herself living in never felt like “home.” She always knew she was a stranger without a family.

Ororo was sold into servitude, starting at a young age. She was meant to be the playmate for the daughter of the family who bought her, a spoiled little girl named Nanette Essex. Her father purchased her from a local trader, intrigued by the child’s unusual looks and tough spirit. She fought his handlers the whole way into the back of his wagon, and he’d eventually had to bind her wrists and blindfold her for the ride home to his estate. Until he’d acquired her, Ororo had been raised by women of ill repute. They were taken by her unique infant beauty and coddled her with what scanty means they had, but she grew up in fear of the clients they brought back into their quarters. Ororo never felt safe, and they eyed her hungrily, even when she was a mere toddler.

Nanette was far worse. She was at the mean little girl’s mercy, blamed for all of the trouble that she got into, and she had no right to deny her lies. The first time she argued about the cherry stain the little girl spilled on her own frock, Ororo was slapped soundly for her troubles. She stared up into the angry, scowling face of Nathaniel Essex, her cruel father. He growled at her, furious, not caring that she was only five.

“You’re nothing,” he sneered. “If she says you were clumsy and ruined her dress, then you did it! I won’t tolerate lies!” He led her off to the cellar, dragging her downstairs. Ororo whimpered and sniffled the entire way, but he ignored her weeping.

The cellar was dark and damp, not lit by so much as a sconce. Nathan needed a lantern to light his way, and it illuminated the dusty, filthy corners of every rafter and recess. There were masses of cobwebs in the doorways, and the wine alcoves were rife with mildew. Mouse excrement littered the floor. Ororo felt sick at the fetid stench and shivered at how cold it was.

“If you can’t behave like a lady, like my little girl does, than you’ll stay down here,” he ordered coldly. He dragged her to a small closet and unlocked it with a brass key that hung from his belt. He hurled her into it, mindless of how small she was, and she wept and screamed to be let out as he locked it shut. She banged tiny, ineffective fists against the rotting wood until they smarted, but his retreating footsteps never returned.

He kept her there until it was time for supper, which was only a heel of bread and a little milk. He handed her off to the governess, who tsked at her misfortune.

“That’ll teach you to hold your miserable tongue, wretch,” she scolded, but she pitied the haunted look in the girl’s eyes. She tried to guide her to the dresser to put on a clean nightgown, but Ororo flinched when she touched her and backed her way into the corner. “Here, then.” She tossed the nightgown to her and didn’t even braid her long white hair for her like she usually did. Ororo stayed up most of the night, huddling in the dark, not caring about the sumptuous furnishings or the thick coverlets and soft mattress.

She despised it. She hated the dark.

*

She ran away from the Essex estate the following year and made her way into the neighboring village, stowing away in the back of a wagon laded with barrels of wine for a local tavern. She hid wherever she could, stealing vegetables from nearby gardens or digging in the trash for leftover scraps. A kindly, beleaguered baker found her and began offering her a day-old bun when she closed the shop every night, but she couldn’t shelter Ororo; her husband had a mean streak when he was drunk, and the child wouldn’t be better off.

Ororo slept wherever there was a doorway or a ledge to hide from the elements. She managed for about three weeks before she was snatched away again.

She was grabbed in a vermin-infested alley where she looked for old rags to pad the sole of her shoe, which had worn through. She fought and kicked against the man with fetid, foul breath and yellowing teeth. He was shabbily dressed and plump, face reddened from a constant habit of alcohol and greasy food, and his graying hair stuck out from beneath a dirty wool cap.

“’Ere now, yer a pretty ‘un, aren’t ya?” he chuckled.

“Let GO!” She struggled and kicked, catching him in the shin, and he slapped her for her troubles.

“Gonna take ya where I can have a look at ya,” he promised, and he hauled her off through the alley, behind two of the adjacent buildings.

That’s when she ended up at the local brothel. This wasn’t her one-time, makeshift “home”, and the women there weren’t as kind to her. Ororo was put to work as a handmaid for the other women, at first. She hated the homely, inappropriate clothing they made her wear and the rouge patted onto her cheeks.

But the day she was led into the back room and introduced to a client who handed over a pile of gold coins to the madam, she’d had enough. She struggled and screamed so loudly that a constable patrolling the street heard her from the open window. When he came into the building to investigate, Ororo snuck out, jumping two stories to the ground without hesitation.

A gust of wind caught her skirts, cushioning and slowing her descent. She escaped unharmed from her fall, and she ran down the street at breakneck speed.

*

Ororo traveled on foot to the next village, nearly dying of hunger and thirst. This time, she realized there was safety in numbers. She was discovered by a street gang of children, and their “adoptive father,” a man named Ahmet, taught her how to pick pockets. She was small, innocent looking, lovely, and quick. She had a natural talent for it, and she made him a lot of money. He didn’t beat her, but he often left her at the mercy of the other children, who were jealous of her prowess and his frequent praise. They teased her unkindly.

“Freak,” they spat, pulling on her long white plaits.

“I’m proud of who I am!” she screamed back. Her posture was defiant, and she was tall for her age, a mere nine years.

“You’re a misfit,” a girl accused haughtily. “You’re garbage. You don’t work any better than me!”

“I am better than you!” Ororo insisted, and she slapped the girl soundly.

The other children sniggered as they broke out into a fight, and the other girl’s friends jumped in, pushing at Ororo when she tried to defend herself. She was worthless to them, the runt of the litter because she was different. It didn’t matter that her take each night still went to Ahmet, and that he doled out the same pittance to each of them with their share of bread and meat. She was competition.

They overpowered her, bruising her and pulling her hair, clawing at her skin. When they closed in on her, the air became heavy with their sweat, and Ororo choked on it. She grew dizzy and hyperventilated as their heads blocked out the sun when they brought her to the ground…

They were hurled back by the electricity that shot out from her outstretched hands. They reeled, thrown back onto the ground, and they stared up at her as she rose shakily to her feet.

Her eyes glowed white as her hair, haloed in eerie blue electricity. She was fearsome and terrible, hair whipping around her head on a wind that sprang up out of nowhere.

“Demon,” the girl accused, pointing at her as though she were stabbing her in the heart with the gesture. “FREAK! DEMON!”

Ororo took advantage of her freedom and ran. By the time she reached the woods, she’d worn down the strap of her sandal, making her heel bleed, but she didn’t care.

*

When Henry found her, she was unconscious and lying tangled in a pile of wet, broken branches on the ground. At first, he didn’t believe what his eyes were telling him, wondering if someone’s laundry pile had blown off the line, but he saw a small sandaled foot sticking out from beneath the brush.

“Good heavens,” he cried as he dropped the basket of truffles he’d dug up. He bolted toward the clearing and saw the poor wretch more clearly, appalled that it appeared to be a child. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured gently as he dug her loose, freeing her from the branches that left scratches on her arms, legs and face. He gasped when he saw her hair, and it was damp and tangled when he brushed it back from her cheeks to get a better look at her.

Cerulean blue eyes snapped open wide when he probed a cut on her knee, and she struggled loose from his grip, not content when he tried to make her hold still. “GAAAHH!” Her touch shocked him badly, singeing the fur on his hand when she discharged a burst of bluish-white…energy. It arced like lightning, he mused, once he gathered his wits about him.

“LEAVE ME ALONE! No! NO!” she cried as she began to hobble off. Henry noticed she had a bad limp, and he wondered how far she’d fallen, that tree branches had interrupted her landing.

“You…flew,” he said. He recovered his wits. “Wait, little girl. Don’t run, please!”

“You won’t take me away! I won’t let you,” she insisted. Her heart pounded at the sight of the strange, furry creature who spoke like a man and who reached out to her with a clawed hand.

*STOP.* 

Ororo instantly halted her crooked run, unable to comprehend why her feet wouldn’t obey her. She stood stock still while her heart pounded in her chest. Her skin was damp and clammy from the cool air and recent rain, but she began to sweat in panic.

“Elisabeth…thank…goodness,” Henry panted as he reached the clearing. He paused to catch his breath and tried to reassure the girl. “Little girl –“

“I’m not a little girl,” Ororo snapped. “I’m in a gang! I work for Ahmet! And…and I’m not a FREAK like you!”

“Well,” Henry harrumphed blandly. “I beg your pardon.” He adjusted his glasses and straightened his vest.

“That’s not very polite,” Betsy interjected as she approached. She tsked at Ororo’s ragged state. “What an urchin you are. You’d be lovely if you let me comb your hair.”

“Don’t…don’t touch me,” Ororo pleaded, but her feet still wouldn’t move. Her eyes widened in terror as Betsy came closer and reached for her cheek, noting a nasty cut.

“Blue,” Betsy murmured. The child was exotic, seeming tall for her age; if she guessed correctly, she was tiptoeing her way toward puberty. Her eyes transfixed her. “Where are your parents, child?”

“I…I don’t have any.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Betsy, release her.” Henry noticed that the little girl was crying silently, ashamed that she had no control over her body, thanks to Betsy’s telekinetic control of her limbs. Betsy let her go, but her to back up when the child launched herself at her, fists raised.

“Ow! Ow, ow! Quit that now, young lady, this instant!” Betsy caught at her fists and tried to duck the bruising pummeling, but Ororo released her pent-up rage on the nearest target.

“You won’t take me away,” she cried hoarsely. “You won’t lock me up in the dark! I’m NOT A FREAK!”

“Of course you’re not, child! None of us are! Put that thought out of your head right now,” Betsy snapped. Ororo continued to struggle, and she kicked Betsy sharply in the shins before she began to scream.

Betsy’s hand flew out swiftly, slapping her smartly across the face. The child was stunned into silence, and Henry bit back a curse.

“BETSY! My stars and garters, woman, have you gone mad? She’s a child!” But before he could chastise her any further, Ororo covered her face with her hands and her shoulders shook. Betsy gathered her into her arms without any more protest or physical injury.

“She was hysterical. Not my best method of getting her attention, I’ll admit, Henry. Yes, child, I’m sorry. I apologize profusely.” She stood and rocked her until the child’s shuddering subsided. Her breathing evened out as Betsy led her to a clearing and laid out a blanket. She bade the girl to sit for a moment while Henry dug into their lunch basket. He offered her an apple, which was promptly snatched out of his hands. Her first bite was almost savage, and juice spurted out over her chin, which she caught with the back of her hand as she crunched the fruit loudly. “Goodness,” Betsy murmured. “She’s as bad as Sam.”

“Give her some credit,” Henry argued, tsking. While the girl demolished the apple, Henry examined her and cleaned her wounds. 

“Did someone beat you?” Betsy inquired.

“Mm-hum. Umm…” she muttered, trying to swallow another mouthful of apple. “Ahmet…his gang that I’m in. Hate me. All of ‘em.”

“I see,” Henry murmured.

“Why do you look like that?” she demanded to know.

“Why not?” he countered. The child looked at him oddly, and he patted her arm fondly.

“You’re not in a gang anymore. Little girls deserve to learn their lessons from books, not the streets. You will comport yourself like a lady. But we still need a name to call you.”

“Not Freak,” she warned her. “Or Trash. Or Nothing.” Henry shook his head.

“Perish the thoughts. I know you have a name, kept in here.” Betsy tapped Ororo’s temple. “I’ll find it, if you let me.”

“What do you…oh!” Ororo looked stunned as Betsy made her initial psychic contact with the child.

The girl’s mind was a nightmare. Betsy shivered at the horrors she’d had to endure, galled to find that her worst treatment happened at the hands of a wealthy man who should have provided her with a safe home and its comforts. At least the leader of her “gang” of urchins praised her once in a while, but Betsy still wanted to find him and reduce him to a blathering shell for profiting from children. Even the whores who had sheltered her had been more decent…

She bypassed these visions, going back farther, until she reached her earliest, deepest memories. Through Ororo’s eyes, she saw two kind, loving faces peering down at her, smiling with love and tenderness. They were both dark-skinned, handsome people, and the surroundings of the room resembled a nursery, modest but well-kept.

“My beautiful little girl,” the woman mused as she reached down to tickle her. “My baby Ororo.”

“Ororo,” Betsy whispered. Henry stared at her.

“Come again?”

“Ororo. That’s your name, child. And it’s lovely.”

“I have a name?” she asked in wonder. She was shaken at the sensation of someone entering her consciousness, but Betsy’s smile reassured her.

“Yes. And if you like, you have a family.”

*

Warren had taught her how to fly. Her maiden flight was ungraceful and fraught with terror and hazards such as tall, swaying trees. Her crash landing brought her into their lives, and when she came to the tiny cottage, she found other children who looked well-fed but with eyes that were just as haunted as hers. At first she didn’t trust Dani much, since she had a rebellious streak, but they grew less wary of each other when it turned out that both of them preferred the outdoors to being penned up inside.

The boy with eyes as blue as hers and snowy, airy wings was the first to welcome her with a bashful smile. “What’s your name?” he asked politely.

“It’s…Ororo,” she said uncertainly, but as it left her mouth, it sounded right.

“It’s…kinda nice,” he mentioned shyly. He shuffled his foot and rubbed his nape before walking off to join the other two little boys. Occasionally she peeked back at him as Betsy showed her around the house, and sometimes, she’d find his eyes following her before they darted away.

She went outside a week later to draw water from the well, and she heard bird song in the air. The loud twittering made her smile, and she watched a flock of sparrows land in the branches of a large oak. The sun blinded her for a moment, but then a large shadow passed over her head, making her crane her neck up for a better look.

Warren.

The boy was flying. He soared gracefully, perfectly balanced, riding smoothly on the air currents with each even, broad flap of his wings. The winds rustled his feathers and slightly long blond hair, and the sunlight caught both, making them gleam against the backdrop of the clear blue sky. Her breath caught at the beautiful sight and the joy on his face. This was where he belonged, and she longed to join him.

She thought about the last time she tried and shuddered. She nearly died. She lacked control and finesse, and she was more at the wind’s mercy, even though she summoned it long enough to pitch her up into the air. But the currents snatched at her, tossing her about, and her fear made her lose control.

As she watched Warren fly, she grew pensive and began to envy him. What if…?

Warren spied her down below and waved, but he was puzzled when he noticed her eyes. His vision was sharp as an eagle’s, and he could spy small objects and details on the ground even when he was hundred of feet above. Her irises were hardly discernible from the whites; they’d clouded over from their usual blue.

He drifted down, down, until he hovered mere yards above her. He extended his hand and smiled. “Wanna come fly with me?” Before she could let herself consider it, she nodded, and he dipped down and caught her, grinning at her tight grip. The winds grew stronger and more erratic, buffeting them as they took flight.

It was glorious…

*

Warren was Ororo’s world.

She adored him. As time went by, Betsy had her way and gradually taught Ororo proper manners, from folding an elegant napkin to dropping an elegant curtsy. But Ororo spent her free time with Warren whenever she could pull him aside. As soon as they closed their texts and cleared their plates, outside they went, and the sky was theirs. She loved his infectious humor, and he had the best knack for making her smile, whether it was his silliness or the sights he shared with her, like nests of finch eggs or snow-capped mountains, or gifts of rare orchids or honey comb. Warren was also protective of her, something Henry wrote off as a “brotherly” instinct.

But that line grew blurred as they both physically matured. Betsy saw how they looked at each other, noticed the hunger burning in their eyes as time passed, and she knew that things were more delicate and complicated than anyone else could guess.

Ororo wasn’t the coltish girl with bashful eyes anymore. She filled out, and her voice wasn’t girlishly high anymore, but smooth, melodious and deep. His body reacted strangely to being close to her, and something within her eyes called to him. They were such a clear, crystal blue, and they seemed to look inside him…

There were subtle smiles that she only gave him. Just a quick glance when she caught him staring at her, and an even quicker dip of her head…she never truly got over her shyness. But when she raised her eyes to meet his, they smiled at him before her full, ripe lips followed. It captivated him.

Bobby elbowed him once, jarring him. “What’s with you?” He almost rounded on him, but he decided it wasn’t worth it to let on to him that he’d gotten to him. 

“Nothing.”

When he looked back up, Ororo had gotten up and attended to her chores, abandoning their silent communication. That ruffled his feathers, figuratively and literally. Warren went outside, following her.

“What are you doing?”

“Hanging the wash,” she tossed over her shoulder. She went to the wringer and started transferring the damp clothes into a basket. She balanced the basket on her hip and took them to the clothesline, then paused to face him. “Hand me the pins?” He obediently retrieved the jar of clothespins and handed them to her, and her fingertips grazed his. Gooseflesh broke out along his flesh, and her light fragrance filled his nostrils, making him…tingle. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” She turned her back to him and began hanging everything up. He automatically helped her with larger items, like bedsheets, helping to spread them out and handing her extra pins to secure their length. He enjoyed hearing her hum to herself and working on the chore, nearly shoulder to shoulder. She occasionally bumped him and smiled up apologetically.

“You’re getting in the way.”

“I’m just trying to help you. You could be a little more grateful.”

“You’ve got your own chores.”

“You’re the only one who gets to do laundry?” he challenged.

“You’re welcome to it, if you want to do it from now on.”

“Maybe I just wanted to help you with it right now.”

“If you like,” she told him cheerfully. She gave him a mischievous look before she sashayed off with the empty basket to refill it. He watched the swing of her hips hungrily and sighed. With the sunlight hitting her hair and caressing her cinnamon brown skin, she was truly beautiful. He followed her, watching her refill the basket from the wringer’s contents.

“Let me get that.”

“You don’t have to.” But he knew the basket was heavy with the damp clothes in it, and it was only polite. He took it from her, and their hand’s brushed again. Ororo flushed and looked flustered. Warren walked back to the clothesline, and this time, she handed him pins as they finished hanging the wash. Perhaps due to Ororo’s emotions, the wind stirred up, making the clothesline dance. It whipped off one of Betsy’s white aprons, tossing it onto the ground. Ororo dove for it with a small cry, not wanting to dirty it again, and Warren moved in tandem for it. They bumped into each other. “Ooh!”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll get it.” They stood, but Warren never let go of the apron. She tried to take it from him, and she arched one snowy brow at him when he smirked back at her. “I’ve got it.”

“I’ve got it,” he shrugged, and he tugged it again, wadding it up in his grip and pulling her closer in the process.

“You’re being a pain.”

“I’m just helping. You’re the one being stubborn.”

“You’re the one who won’t let go,” she accused, slightly irritated, but their fingers were touching again, and the air between them felt charged and heated. Warren was staring at her, and it made her feel self-conscious. She licked her lips. “I can get this done faster without you getting in my way.”

“We’re finished.”

“We would be, if you’d let me hang this.”

“I can do it.” He gently took her fingers and prized them free from the wadded apron, and she shivered at the grip of his hand. “Your hands are soft,” he murmured thoughtfully. Her heart pounded in her chest at his proximity and his low, husky tone, the way his blue eyes seemed to darken as his pupils dilated. She grew lost in his gaze, and she made a small sound of surprise when he lifted her fingers to his lips and brushed them over her knuckles. She flushed all over at the sensations that the tiny gesture caused, sizzling through her nerve endings…

She wanted to credit Betsy’s essential oils that she rubbed on her hands before bedtime, to undo the damage of the wringer and washboard against her knuckles, but Warren’s lips were moving over her fingers, tracing their slender length whisper-soft. Ororo swallowed roughly. “A-are you s-sure you’re finished with your chores?”

“I’m sure.” She carefully eased her hand out of his grip, though, and she backed away, but he caught her wrist, and his impish smile faltered. “Where are you going?”

“Betsy needs me.”

“She hasn’t called you.”

“Er…yes. She did. In here.” She pointed to her temple, and her body screamed at her for her betrayal. Her brain battled with her physical instincts. What would it feel like to let Warren kiss her? How would his soft, well-shaped lips taste?

“You should probably go, then.” But he hadn’t let go of her wrist yet, and her body heeded his slight tug. It was hard to meet his eyes, until she felt his fingertips catch her chin, tipping it up to make her look at him. He saw the confusion in her eyes, and her hesitation frustrated him. He ran the back of his fingertip down the contour of her cheek, and her skin was smooth as a rose petal. “But not yet.”

“Warren…” That fingertip rose to her lips in a gesture meant to shush her, but he stroked their plumpness, and he kept staring at them, wondering how they tasted…her body eased almost imperceptibly closer to his, yielding to his magnetic pull. Her eyes begged him for answers, but he didn’t have any better than the scant dip of his head as his mouth met hers. The kiss was sweet and tender, and he felt her pulse jump in her wrist, heard her intake of breath and low moan of satisfaction.

“WARREN! C’MON! Let’s go to the creek!” Bobby’s voice shattered the serenity of the moment, and they broke apart, startled, before Bobby joined them out in the yard. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What?” Warren spat. “Nothing.”

“You look like you’ve been out in the sun too long,” Bobby accused. “C’mon. Let’s go for a swim. You guys done with the wash?”

“Yes,” Ororo muttered, sheepishly picking up the apron from the ground.

“You’re gonna hafta wash that one over again,” Bobby tsked. Ororo made a sound of disgust and turned her back on both of them.

“Thanks for your concern. Let me get back to that. Go swim.”

“Someone’s grumpy they didn’t finish their chores,” Bobby scoffed. She waited until his back was turned and threw a clothespin at him before she dropped the apron back into the washtub. “C’mon, slowpoke.” Warren reluctantly followed him. Ororo saw him glance back at her once more before she turned back to her laundry, and he left the yard. The wind picked up again, but she mastered it, so her efforts weren’t undone all over again.

Things changed when Remy and Warren began to have new, unexplored feelings for each other, too. But the connection between Warren and Ororo made it hard for her to accept.

*

Betsy knocked on her door. “Lock this before you lie down for the night,” Betsy chided her, as she walked in with a cup of steaming tea. “We have a male guest.”

“I know. Thank you, Betsy.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I suppose.” Betsy sighed.

“You’ve been quiet since dinner. You didn’t eat much,” she prodded.

“I wasn’t hungry. I’m sorry. Everything tasted very good.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Not much.”

“Did you just feel like making it rain?”

“Oh!”

With a gesture, Ororo reached toward the window and her eyes glowed, briefly, as the rain slowed from a steady, punishing drum against the roof to a mere sprinkle. Her expression closed up as she sipped the fragrant chamomile tea.

Betsy came to her side and began to brush her hair. The strokes were soothing, making Ororo relax as she stared into her own reflection rippling in her cup. “Did someone upset you today?”

“Maybe. A little.”

“Argument?”

“No.”

“Prank?” Betsy wasn’t averse to the idea of jumping on Bobby when need be. The lad was an incurable scamp.

“No.”

“Did something embarrass you today? Did you have a bad memory, dear?” Ororo cringed at the word “embarrassment.”

“I’d rather not talk about it, please.”

“You always can.” Betsy didn’t say anything else as she braided her hair into a long, neat rope for bed. Ororo was the picture of softness and femininity in her cream-colored muslin nightgown trimmed in simple white ribbons and lace. She had lovely, generous curves and smooth skin, and Betsy said a silent prayer for the trail of broken hearts she’d leave behind her.

One heart in particular, if he didn’t get his blond head out of his arse…

*

Danielle poured herself a furtive drink of milk in the kitchen, hoping Betsy wouldn’t hear her on her way back down from Ororo’s loft. The telepath was adamant about ensuring the women in the house were safely behind locked doors while Victor was under their roof, even though Dani didn’t see what the problem was. None of them were defenseless, and there was safety in numbers. She took a sip of the cold, sweet milk and wished there were some cookies left.

“What’re you doin’ up, gal?” Dani nearly jumped out of her skin at the familiar drawl, not expecting anyone to sneak up on her. She whirled on Sam and glared up into his grinning face.

“Ass,” she hissed, clouting soundly. He chuckled and rubbed his arm, then pointed at her.

“Gotcha good.”

“Get out of my way,” she complained as she bustled past him. She finished the milk hastily and wiped her mouth with the collar of her shift.

“Not very ladylike.”

“You’re no gentleman.”

“You’re s’posed to be in bed.”

“Rahne’s already asleep. Why are you still up?” she countered sharply, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

Sam shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s because you slept all day.”

“Did not! I helped Bobby patch the roof.”

“This morning. Then we didn’t see hide nor hair of you for the rest of the day, til Dougie showed up.”

“Wasn’t like anybody needed me for anything else,” he shrugged again. Dani shook her head.

“Lazy bones.”

“Dani?”

“Yeah?”

“Why d’you think Victor came back?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it can’t be good.”

“Betsy was pretty mad.”

“What’d you expect?”

“Dunno. It’s just… he was different.” Sam remembered Victor as being big, hard, and seemingly unshakable when they’d met him years ago. He’d admired the man’s physical strength and his determination to find Remy at the brothel, and in his own way, he was as much animal as man, not unlike Henry, even though he wore a handsome man’s face.

He’d certainly changed. Sam was awed to see him looking so haggard and so vulnerable. He seemed to shrink a bit, certainly still a large man, but he didn’t stand as proudly or have the same swagger. His blue eyes were sunken and his cheeks were hollow. He’d accepted their eventual hospitality grudgingly, as though he felt he didn’t deserve to sup at their table, grunting barely audible thanks when Sam set down his plate before him, and when Rahne poured him a cup of milk. He ate mechanically, more out of politeness than actual hunger.

“I want to kick his arse out, tie him to his saddle, and send him packing,” Dani told him. There was a savage gleam in her dark eyes that almost made Sam shiver. “I just want to keep him away from Remy.”

“He tried to protect him before, gal.”

“Remy was terrified of him,” she reminded him belligerently. “You can’t make that up. He stabbed him, doofus!”

“Remy didn’t mind him a little while ago,” he huffed. Then Sam sighed. “I ain’t gonna argue with ya.”

“Who’s arguing?” 

“Whatever brought him back here can’t be good,” Sam decided. “Especially if he was willing t’come back even after bein’ gutted.” The fight left Dani’s stance, and she leaned back against the wall, watching Sam thoughtfully.

“That’s why I’m worried,” she admitted. “Sam…Henry told us that we’d all be safe here.”

“We are. We’re here together, Dani. We’ve got two of us who can smell out anyone meanin’ us harm from a mile away, three who can fly-“

“Two of us who can fly, and one who can smash through everything, whether he means it or not,” Dani teased, smirking. Sam reached for a dish towel and wadded it up, snapping her with it. “OW!”

“And a mean little brat who can dig inside a man’s head and scare the hell outta him. Let’s not forget that.” Despite his words, Sam grinned back at her, then sobered.

Danielle was beautiful enough to take his breath away.

Like Ororo, she had her hair plaited for bed, but she only wore a simple shift that reached down to her ankles in soft, pale gray muslin that contrasted sharply with her cinnamon brown skin. The silhouette of her gracefully curving hips and modest breasts were easily visible in the glow of the lantern she used to guide her way to the kitchen, and the nightgown’s sleeves were short, revealing long, slender arms.

Her profile featured a slightly irregular but elegant nose and strong chin. It made her face interesting to look at and memorable. Her forehead was high, a mark of intelligence and sensitivity, and she had strong, arched brows that tended to beetle together when she was annoyed or she found someone else’s logic lacking. Her cheekbones were sharp and sculpted, the sort that women often envied.

Her eyes and lips, however, were his favorite features. Irises so deep a shade of brown they looked black shone in the firelight and tracked Sam’s movements and gestures, and they spoke volumes of Dani’s emotions. And her mouth…heaven help him. She had soft, full lips and straight, pearly teeth that were made to laugh, especially at his expense.

“Who’re you calling ‘little?’” She swatted him in umbrage.

“Ow…”

“I’m going to bed, now.”

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“I’m more worried about fleas. Rahne sleeps in her half-wolf form when it’s cold like it is tonight.” Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“More than I needed t’know, Dani.”

“Sound squeamish for a country boy, Sammy.” She padded out of the kitchen smoothly, and his eyes followed the sway of her hips.

He had to remind himself not to drool…

*

 

“Mirror, where is Victor?” Raven demanded.

“He’s…out in the woods, highness. He…went to visit some friends.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she snapped. “What friends could he possibly have? He’s turned into such a wine sack. No one can stand to be around him, when he walks around acting so morose.” Raven had outgrown her addiction to him, at any rate. The royal household staff didn’t ask Victor questions, but they were more patient with him than Raven gave him credit for. They decided it was wise not to disturb the big, burly hunter and just let him sulk off to his corner with his bottle of whiskey, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

“Certainly he’s allowed a life outside of the castle, Mistress?”

“Why? What life out there can he have that’s better than living in a palace? He has a soft life, indeed. He rides the best horses and eats the richest food every night. He certainly isn’t thirsty,” she said bitterly. “Should I wear the rubies or the sapphires, Mirror?”

“Whichever you like best. Will it be the black velvet today, Mistress?” she asked helpfully.

“Goodness, no. I’m tired of black, even though it’s a nice enough little frock. It makes me look like I’m in mourning.”

“Mistress…er, His Majesty seems a bit down in the mouth. I think a fit of melancholy has fallen over him, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Well, it is the anniversary of the date that we lost –“

“Don’t say it. I refuse to hear that name in my chamber, do you hear me?”

“Mistress…”

“NEVER say that horrid name!” Raven screeched, and she brandished a flagon of perfume, preparing to hurl it at the glass. Cerebra gulped audibly.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. It won’t happen again. I spoke out of turn.”

“Indeed,” Raven muttered, still rankled. She set down the perfume and eyed her own reflection. She squinted at it. “What’s this?”

“What, Mistress?”

“That! THAT!” She pointed to the corner of her eye, leaning in closer and tugging on the fair, delicate skin. “A WRINKLE!”

“I see no lines, Mistress. You’re still lovely.”

“No, Mirror,” Raven gritted through her teeth. “You don’t understand. I must be the most beautiful. Not merely lovely. That’s rubbish. I won’t have it.” Raven concentrated on her reflection and focused on the tiny, nearly imperceptible line. Slowly it vanished, but the effort left her shaken. “It’s your responsibility to inform me of such an unfortunate detail, so that I may remedy it quickly, Mirror. You’ve been lax in that regard.”

“My sincerest apologies, Mistress. Aye. I’ve failed you miserably.” Inwardly, Cerebra sighed, and when Raven turned her back, the golden, sculpted visage atop the mirror rolled its eyes in disgust.

“That leaves the question, Mirror…what’s been distracting you from your duties to your queen?”

“Er…I’ve just been resting, Mistress.”

“You’re an inanimate object.”

“I thought I was very animated,” Cerebra sniffed. When Raven gave her a dark look, she demurred, “Tell me where you’d like to go today, Mistress.”

“Into the woods.”

“Pardon?” Cerebra felt a frisson of unease.

“Into the woods. Follow that miserable man who calls himself my husband’s huntsman. I want to see where he’s been hiding himself for the past two days.” Cerebra suppressed her panic, only allowing her face to display a serene smile.

“Aye, Mistress. As you wish.” Raven sat back at her vanity and brushed her hair moodily, still put out about the wrinkle.

*

It was growing more difficult to suppress her age. Her late nights and overindulgences didn’t help matters, certainly, but her physical transformations took more effort lately, and Jean-Luc noticed something that disturbed her even more.

“Raven? Step closer, toward the light,” he beckoned. She chuckled but obeyed, gliding across the study to his great chair. 

“What’s on your mind?”

“I was just admiring you,” he admitted. “I noticed earlier, when we were in the garden…your eyes are changing color.”

“What?” she replied nervously, but she covered it with a laugh. “That’s amusing, husband! No one’s eyes change color!”

“Aye, but they do. As we age, they lose a hint of their brilliance. Yours are still lovely, though, darling. But for a moment, when we stood outside, they looked almost…green.”

Raven felt alarm rising up in her chest. No! 

“But they’re blue as the sky in June,” he assured her. “And you’re lovely.”

“More wine?” Raven suggested. Jean-Luc himself, despite careful grooming efforts from his manservant, looked tired and slightly haggard. His stubble advanced to a full beard, and there were gray strands mingled with his russet brown waves. His eyes never lost that hollow look since the night that Remy was lost…

…since the night he was killed, Raven corrected herself. She was so happy to be rid of that brat.

*

Cerebra concentrated, and Raven’s reflection swirled away as the glass misted over, producing glowing images. It was a rainy night, which surprised Raven, since the day had been so clear. Raven saw the glen through Cerebra’s eyes, and she grew curious about the lay of the land.

“That doesn’t look like our hunting grounds.”

“It’s not, Mistress.”

“Hmmph. That’s not helpful, Mirror. What I meant was, WHERE is this?”

“In the Silver Forest, milady, which isn’t one of our territories,” Cerebra clarified. Raven shrugged.

“It could be, if Jean-Luc were more ambitious. They have some nice land,” Raven mused. Cerebra shuddered. What Raven suggested on a whim was ridiculous.

“You rule a vast, wondrous kingdom, Mistress.”

“Bigger is always better when it comes to that sort of thing, Mirror.”

Cerebra was silent. She allowed Raven to follow her on her journey to the modest cottage.

“What a shabby little place. I can’t say much for Victor’s friends,” Raven scoffed.

“I think it looks cozy.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you live there.”

“Nay, Mistress. I don’t. I can only guess.”

“It’s just so ramshackle. It looks like it was slapped together and like whoever built it couldn’t make up their minds halfway through which way it was supposed to go.” Once again, Cerebra was silent.

She was beginning to hate Raven.

“Take us inside.”

Cerebra obeyed, and Raven peered into the rooms and saw the crackling fire in the hearth. The furnishings were modest, only slightly nicer than the ones in her girlhood home, and Raven sneered. She didn’t want to remember… in her nightmares, she still saw her father banishing her and heard Irene’s shrill sobs. The scene moved into the kitchen, and Raven saw a tall, winsome girl walking out with a mug of something.

“Plain little thing. Not bad, I suppose, but she’s nothing to write home about.” Then she spied the tall, blond young man who watched her walk out. “Goodness, he’s a tall drink of water, isn’t he? Are they married?”

“I don’t think so, Mistress.”

“Then they’re living in sin?” Raven smirked at this juicy possibility. “They’re awfully young. What a scandal. I love scandal. Show me some more.”

“Certainly, Mistress.” They wove their way through the hallway, where Sam turned into his room, and Raven noticed another young man who looked about the same age.

“Odd. If they’re a couple, then who’s this?”

“Perhaps a brother,” Cerebra suggested. She didn’t want to lie to Raven, since she was her mistress, and she guessed that the cold-hearted queen would sniff it out.

“They look nothing alike.” Raven gasped as another man entered the room. “What…is that?”

“Pardon?”

“That man,” Raven spat. “He’s blue.”

“Blue’s a nice color,” Cerebra said cheerfully.

“It’s dreadful. He’s…a creature! He looks like a cat!”

“He’s unique.”

“He’s a freak.” Cerebra suppressed a sigh. Hypocrite, she thought. You have the luxury to change at will and to be accepted by all who see you, but it hasn’t helped you a whit. You’re still a cruel, miserable bitch.

“Take me into the other rooms,” she demanded.

“Sister?” Irene inquired at the door. She entered without knocking, and Raven turned on her, hissing.

“WHAT?”

“It’s late. I brought you some tea.”

“I’m not tired yet. And I’m occupied.”

“You have an early day tomorrow. Tea at the Essex estate?” Irene reminded her casually. “If you give me some suggestions, I can lay out your gown and have it freshened before you lay down.” 

“Lord, that woman bores me,” Raven muttered. She sighed, resigned. “Very well, then.”

“They’ll still be there in the morning,” Cerebra said cheerfully. Her expression was sardonic as she peered down at Irene. The elderly blind woman was solemn as she helped Raven out of her rich robe and set her slippers aside.

“I want the green one,” Raven informed her. “It will go well with all of those jealous women’s eyes.”

“That’s fine, dearest. Off with you, now; time for bed. It’s important to get your beauty rest.” Raven remembered the wrinkle and shuddered.

“Leave me, then. Good night.” Irene turned down the covers and Raven turned her back on her as she climbed into bed. Her foster sister didn’t bend down to kiss her goodnight, a detail that didn’t bother her.

“Goodnight, sister.” Irene extinguished the lantern and threw another log onto the fire, listening to it crackle. Only when she finally heard her sister’s breathing lapse into soft snores did she rise and return to the mirror.

“Cerebra, walk with me.” The glowing green apparition materialized beside Irene in a twinkling.

“As you wish.”

*

They adjourned to the kitchen, where Irene poured herself a cup of the fragrant jasmine tea. “That was a close call.”

“We have a problem,” Cerebra sighed.

“Do we, now?” Irene snorted.

“I can’t lie. Not an outright one, at any rate.”

“Good heavens, child, why on earth not?”

“It’s part of the spell that was cast over me,” she explained. “I’m a servant to whomever possesses my vessel.”

“The mirror.”

“Exactly. And I’m beholden to tell the truth. It’s my punishment.”

“What happened? Why were you so cursed?”

“I was in love, once. I was married to a man who was very possessive, and unfortunately, very paranoid. I promised him my heart and soul, and that didn’t satisfy him.”

“Men are foolish creatures,” Irene sniffed. She never married, as she never found a man who wasn’t intimidated by her blindness, or who didn’t feel it was a curse that would befall any children she brought into the world. But the ones who were taken by her beauty when she was young used to annoy her, seeming to be after only one thing. Raven drove them off, occasionally arranging convenient “accidents” that ensured that they bothered no other woman ever again. Stavros and Mortimer, the two boys who soiled Irene and took her virtue, met untimely ends in prison when Raven had them arrested and locked away, shortly after her marriage.

“He apprenticed himself to a master of the dark arts. He felt that I was being unfaithful to him. He used a scrying glass to track my every movement. I grew tired of it, and I was afraid to return home every night from my visits to the market, or to my mother’s home. But one night, he got it into his head that I had taken a liking to the local butcher.”

“Did you?”

“He had nice eyes. But no. I wasn’t mad, milady.”

“All right.”

“But he waited for me to return. As soon as I opened the door, I felt this burst of energy wrap around me. He just stood there with this odd, awful smile on his face. And that’s how I ended up here.”

“When was this?”

“Five hundred years ago, give or take.”

“Gracious,” Irene tsked. “That’s dreadful.”

“I’ve passed through many sets of hands. I’ve been guarded just as jealously by each of them as I was by my sainted husband.”

“He was no saint,” Irene countered.

“Well, all right, then. Aye, he was a beast.”

“This is my curse. Eternal servitude, until someone breaks the vessel.”

“It would be that easy to end your torment?”

“Heavens, no. That would bring about my true death.” Irene pondered this.

“Well, then. That’s a fine kettle of fish.”

*

Three days passed, and the kingdom within the Silver Forest’s borders was in an uproar.

King Jonathan’s soldiers raided the local brothels and taverns, rounding up and arresting the proprietors and madams whom Logan’s intelligence fingered as traffickers. Dozens of “poachers” were thrown into wagons in chains and taken away to prison, awaiting dire but well deserved sentences. Several children who were locked away within the confines of the whorehouse were freed, and word was sent out across the village and letters were posted in all of the businesses’ windows to alert their parents, many of whom had lost hope. Families began to be reunited far and wide.

It took longer to flush out the two that Logan set his sights on, and it frustrated him. He knew that Shaw’s men were still at large, and they were still a threat to the helpless. Logan knew they communicated with their contacts with code words. They called the children they kidnapped “lambs” and their agents who procured them “shepherds.”

Logan took matters into his own hands, and he sent for North, demanding that his captain meet him in his chamber. “I need your assistance.”

“Name it, sire.”

“No. Don’t call me sire.”

“Pardon?”

“No one can know who I am. Tonight, I’m Patch. I have a feeling we’ll find them at the Lion’s Den.” 

“The most recent word that’s come back to me points to it, sire. It’s a nasty place. I wouldn’t let a tax collector stay there for a night.” Logan chuckled.

“You don’t feel strongly about it,” he teased. “We go tonight.”

“Sire, you’re the crown prince.”

“No. I’m Patch, a knockabout who likes ale too much.” Logan produced a bundle of clothes from a trunk by the foot of the bed. “This is my hunting gear, and I’ve made some adjustments to it.” North wrinkled his nose; the clothing smelled like someone had been rolling around in the stables in it.

“Sire, those clothes are very…ripe.”

“That’s the idea. We’re headed to the Lion’s Den, and we’ll pull the cats’ whiskers out by the roots.”

“Wyngarde and Pierce?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll finally sleep once their in shackles, sire.”

“Patch.”

“Patch, then.” North sighed as Logan excused himself to change into his disguise. He left the chamber and assembled a modest selection of the king’s royal guard.

*

The patrons of the inn were a rowdy, downtrodden bunch. The best-heeled of them still drank the cheap stuff, in the barkeep’s opinion, but as long as they didn’t call him out for watering it down, it didn’t matter to him. A beggar’s coin was just as shiny as one from a count, not that he ever got much of the latter…but then, it depended on whether they were there for the poker tables or the entertainment in the private room in back.

His latest customer was a live one. The barkeep wrinkled his nose and laughed bitterly at the short, stout man in a raggedy jacket and soiled trousers. His boots were hopelessly scuffed, and it looked like the sole was hanging off the left one. His black hair was shaggy and sticking out from beneath a grubby gray cap.

“’Ere, now, what’s this? We’ve got a big spender in our midst. Don’t waste your time, shorty. Your money’s no good here.”

“My coin’s shine just as bright as anyone else’s,” the man slurred as she slapped a sack of money onto the counter. “Had a big day. Wanna wet my whistle.” He hiccupped as though he’d already done that within the past hour. The barkeep sighed.

“You’ve had enough already. Go dry out.”

“Not til I’ve had my drink, and a toss. What’ve ya got upstairs? How much for a toss with a lovely in silk stockings?” The barkeep guffawed.

“So you think you’ve something to offer my girls? You wouldn’t last two minutes in your condition.”

“Try me,” he boasted. There was an odd gleam in the rough man’s eyes, and his swagger was unmistable. The barkeep laughed again.

“Very well.”

“I wanna talk to your gracious employer.”

“What on earth for?”

“I want the lovely that he likes best,” he said. “The guv’ knows best, don’t he?”

“Show me your money first,” the barkeep told him. His voice grew cold. “And no funny business. The owner doesn’t spend much time here with the peasants. He’s a busy gentleman with important business.”

“Aye. I’ll wager it’s too important for the likes of me. Tell ‘im Patch is willin’ t’pay him top dollar for his favorite. Manager’s special,” he scoffed. The barkeep shook his head.

“Fine, then.” He pointed to a nearby stool. “Sit.” He poured him a tall mug of ale and thunked it down in front of him. Once the man’s back was turned, “Patch” sniffed the brew and made a face before shoving it onto a nearby tray, which a barmaid then waddled off with into the crowd. It smelled fetid and sour.

Logan sat and waited, tucking his sack of coins back into the pocket of his coat. North lingered within the crowd, dressed just as shabbily in a torn, brown velvet jacket and strategically stained pants. His cheeks were smudged in ashes from the hearth, and he’d splashed himself with whiskey on the way out of the castle to assist Logan’s ruse.

It was going to be a long night.

The barkeep returned, motioning for him to follow. “This way, shorty.”

Logan tracked him through the crowd until they reached the door to the back room. “In,” the barkeep ordered, voice clipped. He glared at the other weasly man who tried to follow him inside. “Only one at a time.”

“If you’ve a lass that good, she should be able to handle the both of us,” Logan pointed out smugly.

“Man after my own heart,” a raspy voice agreed from the darkness. The room was poorly lit, and Patch turned toward the rear corner and saw a handful of men seated at a rickety table. A tall, thin blond with a broken nose was counting money and drinking a glass of gin. The speaker made Logan’s skin crawl.

He was grotesque, pale-skinned and sallow, and the flesh beneath his eyes looked bruised and puffy. His eyes themselves were a watery, grayish blue and beady, cruel eyes with little humor. His hair was dark and lank and looked like it hadn’t seen a bar of soap in weeks. He wore a drab, long coat with a short cape around the collar, and he smiled at Patch with jagged, yellow teeth. His nose was long and narrow, like a rat’s. He scratched it with one long, sketetal finger and smiled.

“What’ve you got a taste for?” he asked.

“Something young and spicy. But especially young.”

“We’ve got the very thing. But show me your coin.” He nodded to the men behind him, who rose from the table and flanked their two visitors. “And I hate to rain on your picnic, gents, but I have to ask you to empty your pockets.” Patch shrugged.

“Fine by me. Rather I empty ‘em myself, than let someone else do it for me, eh?”

“Indeed,” the blond behind them agreed, peering up from the stack of notes.

Patch and his cohort emptied the contents directly onto the floor. They wisely left any of their belongings that possessed the royal seal with their guard, all of whom mingled among the crowd, nursing drinks that they never touched.

The items were mundane enough. Out came the sack of coins, a small pocket knife, a bent spoon that made Jase mutter under his breath, a pouch of pipe tobacco, a dirty handkerchief, and a few random wads of newspaper, no doubt to keep his fingers warm in the absence of mittens.

“An embarrassment of riches,” Donal remarked.

“Aye. We’ve a couple of big spenders, Don.”

“Best customers you’ve got,” Patch boasted.

“Bring her down,” Jase murmured to the barkeep. The rotund, sweating man nodded and exited the back room, footfalls heavy on the floorboards. He went back to the table and picked up the bottle of gin, pouring himself two fingers. “You can smoke, if you like.”

“After,” Patch promised. North was silent beside him, seeming to fade into the wall. If Jase’s cohorts noticed, they said nothing.

There was a scuffling in the hallway, and the barkeep returned with a young girl who couldn’t have been any older than twelve, garbed into a dark cloak. Her hair was dressed in elaborate curls, and her pale cheeks were smudged in rouge. Patch suppressed a shudder; her eyes looked hollow and uncomfortable, and she appeared to be terrified.

“Fresh as morning rain,” Jase boasted. “She’ll treat you right, gentlemen.” The barkeep shoved her toward them with amusement.

“Don’t be shy,” he told her, grinning.

“Come here, lass,” Patch encouraged. He reached out and caught her hand, and he felt her arm go taut with tension and fear. Her pulse jumped beneath his fingertips.

“Please,” she whispered, “don’t hurt me…”

“Have you any family, lil’ miss?” he murmured. He let his eyes leave her face to give the men behind her a quick, smug glance.

“What?”

“Anyone who misses you?”

“What’re you getting at?” Donal sneered. “She’s a nobody! Pay yer money and do with her what you want!”

“North,” Patch said, nodding to his companion.

“Aye, sire,” he agreed, before he rounded on the men standing behind them. He threw a punch that caught the taller one by surprise, driving his knuckles through his teeth. He tripped the second, a burly one whose momentum and weight carried him into the wall head-first when North tripped him. He dispatched them easily as the men at the table rose, shaken from their languor.

“You’re under arrest,” Logan informed them cheerfully. “GUARD! GET THE HELL IN HERE!” His bellow shook the rafters, right before he joined the fray.

*

Witchcraft became Raven’s second favorite hobby. She acquainted herself with a countess from the Highlands who showed her the wonders of the dark arts. She consulted her about youth potions and special poisons that could be slipped flavorlessly into foods and drinks. The countess communed with spirits of the damned, those consigned to walk the earth for their past sins. She was one of Raven’s bosom companions, joining her in her nightly pursuits at the inns and gambling halls. She indulged her in various erotic forays with multiple partners, each romp more perverse than the next. She was just as indispensable as Cerebra, in her own fashion.

She consulted grimoires and leather bound journals of spells, some whose authors perished in prison for acts of such heinous bloodshed that her toes curled reading about it. Ritual sacrifices were common in these accounts, but Raven thought it was a small price to pay for the wielder to get what they wanted.

Irene often left her alone when she was studying the books, knowing that Raven would emerge from the library or her chamber much moodier than before. Cerebra, too, despised her research sessions and wisely kept her comments to a minimum when Raven consulted her for her morning entertainment.

The sun shone through the lacy draperies, brightening the chamber with the first rays of dawn. Raven approached the mirror cheerfully and sat at the vanity.

“Good morning, Mirror.”

“Good morning, Mistress. Where would you like to go today?”

“Back into the woods. My huntsman hasn’t returned yet.”

“Oh. All right. I’m sure he will return soon, Mistress, but we’ll check up on him.”

“I want to see him, this time. Not the cottage. Victor himself. No matter where he is. No matter who he’s with,” Raven clarified.

Cerebra’s heart would have stopped if she still had one.

“You want to see Victor?”

“I thought I made that clear.”

“Crystal, Mistress, but…”

“But WHAT?”

“I just thought-“

“You don’t THINK. You DO. Namely whatever I tell you do,” Raven snapped. Her eyes blazed an eerie, seldom-seen yellow, and Cerebra recoiled. “I. Want. To see. Victor. NOW.”

Cerebra sighed heavily. She sent up a silent prayer to whichever gods who were listening that Victor was behaving himself, and that Remy was nowhere in sight.

The gods laughed.


	11. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven realizes that she’s left unfinished business alone long enough. Remy’s surrogate family rallies around him when he meets with peril.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to thank my friend Roe on AFF, since he is an excellent writer when time allows and a great collaborator. He helped me with my writer's block and is a great muse. Big-ups and love to my Yahoo Groups, as well.

Betsy joined Henry in the sitting room, two cups of tea in hand. He greeted her with a gentle smile. She was in slightly messy dishabille, wearing a winter robe and slippers, and her hair hung messily down her back.

“Don’t stare at me like my knickers are showing.”

“I would never dare, milady.”

_Well, whyever not?_

She tried not to look put out, but Henry was making it…rather difficult. “Our visitor has settled in.” She said this with clear distaste.

“Promise me the next time I see him, he won’t be flopping his arms and chanting, ‘I’m a turnip!’”

“I won’t have to take such extreme measures, Henry. He isn’t that bright. I read him. He’s telling the truth. That leads us to our next problem.”

“And that would be?”

“Remy’s in danger. Cerebra sent Victor here with a vision.” Henry sat openmouthed and removed his reading glasses.

“Who…is Cerebra?”

“That helpful spirit who enlightened us about Remy’s past and who the boy really is.”

“The spirit. Yes, yes. She had the vision?”

“Actually, she was just passing it along. The queen’s servant has a softer heart than her sister, and she is a powerful soothsayer. She saw a vision of Remy’s future. It’s bleak, Henry.” Betsy looked grim. Henry’s hackles rose.

“Visions can be wrong. Or they can change.”

“Henry, we can’t ignore this. That man’s come a long way. This is a sign. We can only do so much to protect him.”

“He’s a man, now, Betsy. He doesn’t need us to-“

“Not Remy, you simpleton. I meant Victor.”

*

“Mr. North? Bring him in.” Logan’s voice was clipped. He sat expectantly on the chair one of the officers brought down to the cell. The sound of chains rattling and scuffing footsteps grew louder in the corridor. Logan fortified himself with a bite of bread, grateful to be away from the rat-infested inn, which turned his stomach. While Jase and his cohorts were rounded up, Logan returned to his suite, slightly bloodied, dirty, and very satisfied.

He changed into a clean pair of dark trousers and a shirt that he left open for the sake of comfort. North nodded to the guards.

“Bring that trash inside.” Flames crackled from sconces on the walls, throwing uneven, flickering shadows over the occupants of the cell. “Take a load off. You’ve had a long night. Hope you sleep well in your new accommodations.” The man who was thrust before him, trussed up in manacles, was a shell of the brash, self-satisfied bastard he’d met in the back of the inn. He glared at Logan sourly, and Logan allowed himself a tight little smile.

“I demand to be set free at once. I was conducting a legitimate trade in my place of business. I own that inn and gambling hall, and you’ve shamed me by dragging me out in front of my patrons. I demand satisfaction.”

“You demand nothing, rubbish!” North spat, and he boxed his ear, demanding his attention and respect. “You dare raise your voice to the crown prince?” Jase was taken aback.

“But…you…”

“A necessary disguise and ruse,” Logan shrugged. “It would have attracted too much attention if I’d marched inside wearing my coat of arms. I believe in subtlety. You forced my hand, sir.” Jase was silent, and he shrank back in his seat. The height difference between the men disappeared. Logan sat tall in his chair and drummed his fingers on his knee. “I won’t hang you, if you tell me the names of your men, so that I may raid any other ‘legitimate’ business ventures you have and empty your stable.”

“I won’t give up my own!” Jase hissed. “I have more honor than that!” Logan’s brows slammed down and fires burned in his dark eyes. His jaw hardened and a noticeable tic jerked beneath the taut skin. He banged his fist on the table and stood so quickly he nearly overturned it.

“HONOR?” he boomed. “How dare you speak to me of honor? Honor among garbage! Honor among slavers! You, sir, know nothing of honor, and you corrupt the word by letting it escape your tongue. You’ll give me the names, or you’ll hang.”

“I’d sooner die,” Jase grunted as North jerked his head back by his greasy hair. His nose wrinkled in distaste at having to touch the vermin again.

“You will, but it won’t be by my executioner’s hand. There are alternatives to prison, Wyngarde. You can toil away in my trenches and my quarries. They’re full of indentured servants whose idea of ‘honor’ was just as twisted as your own. Such perverted, ruined men make strange bedfellows. None of them were convicted for murder.” Logan stressed convicted with venom, and Jase smothered a whimper. “You won’t last a week.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“The little girl I met tonight would disagree with you. A child.” Logan’s blood boiled, and color rose in his cheeks. His chest heaved with the effort to control himself, and he resembled a rabid wolf protecting its territory.

Or a mother wolf, protecting its cub.

Logan saw Laura in his mind’s eye, safe in her bed, long tendrils of black curls spread across her pillow. Her little chest rose and fell beneath the covers as she sighed in her sleep, and her unspoiled beauty moved him. She was the product of his love for his sainted wife, even though theirs was a pragmatic marriage born out of the need to settle down. But Laura brought out the best in him, and he’d tear a man’s head off for laying a finger on her or violating her.

What the man did to innocent children was abominable. He had no conscience and no soul. He deserved to be run through on Logan’s sword, but he wouldn’t soil it.

“Some time on the rack will loosen your tongue,” Logan decided. That got the weasly man’s attention, and his beady eyes snapped open wide.

“That’s…let’s not be unreasonable, sire…”

“The time for reasoning is over,” Logan told him. His heart was still pounding, and he needed to get away from the man and get some whisky in him before he did something dire. He’d never sleep tonight. “Take him out.”

“HIGHNESS! PLEASE! MERCY! MERCY! I beg of you! You can’t do this!”

“By my father’s authority, I can. You’re a stain upon my land. You’ve hurt innocent children. I want names, Wyngarde. Not just your men. I want the names of the children you’ve kidnapped and forced into your whorehouses and taverns. Every last one. I want to know which families you’ve stolen from to see if I can repair the lives you’ve ruined.”

“I…I-“

“I won’t have satisfaction until this is resolved.” Logan let himself out, and his guards watched his back, escorting him back to his carriage. He rode back to the palace and retired to his room, where he stared out the window, deep in thought.

The children deserved justice. The glass of brandy in his hand warmed beneath his touch, but its fumes and smooth burn didn’t clear his head.

The Painted Lady. He needed to go back. Logan decided he would need to talk to more of the locals.

*

Raven burned with curiosity about the cottage and its occupants. Her voyeuristic urges were piqued by the young people who lived in it, none of whom had a clear-cut, well-defined relationship to each other. Irene beckoned to her to come away from the mirror for a while, interrupting her entertainment. “Come. Rest.”

“I’m not finished.”

“Are you really that interested in Victor’s comings and goings? You’re tired of him, sister.”

“Everyone’s comings and goings are my business,” Raven reminded her haughtily. But her blossoming tirade was cut short by a knock on the door. Irene left her and opened it to admit Jean-Luc. He was still dressed in his day clothes, and he looked concerned.

“Darling, I’m sorry to come to you at this late hour, and with such inconvenient news.”

“Yes, husband?” Raven feigned interest and smiled, letting him take both of her hands and stroke them.

“I won’t be able to accompany you to the luncheon tomorrow. I’ve been called away. Jonathan requested an audience with me regarding some trouble he’s having in his territories.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Human trafficking.” Raven made a face.

“That’s awful.” Inwardly, she shrugged. Whoring was a peasant’s game, and it didn’t appeal to her. Even the talented prostitutes carried diseases and liabilities, and not all of them were discreet. Their tongues loosened for the right price.

“He’s requested my help, and some of my guard to patrol the borders for any of them seeking refuge in our land. His son already led a raid –“

“The prince? Why didn’t he leave it up to his guards to take care of it?”

“Prince James has an extensive and well decorated military background, wife.” He released her hands and kissed her cheek. “It speaks well of him that he would handle this himself. He’s a man of action.”

“Have a fruitful meeting, Jean-Luc. I shall miss you terribly.”

“I’ll only be gone three days,” he assured her. Raven beamed, thinking of all the lovely time she’d have to herself for her extracurricular pursuits.

“I’ll be counting the minutes, my love.” He kissed her again, and she suffered it gracefully before he swept back out. 

“Are you still concerned with Victor now, sister?”

“Watch your tongue, Irene, or I’ll have it cut out.” Raven retired for the night, and her appetite for Victor’s wanderings had dulled considerably. Irene, however, lingered awake into the night, fretful and unsettled.

 

*

Logan resumed his disguise as “Patch” a while longer, feeling it would serve him well to keep a low profile on the docks. His guard was discreet, riding out in small number through the village, two to three of them assigned to each block and awaiting his signal. At the first sign of trouble, North ordered that they were to ride hard and fast to the brothel, and that he would fire a warning shot into the air from his musket.

He lingered on the docks, whistling a jaunty sea shanty under his breath, a man at leisure. His clothes were shabby and derelict, but still made from rich fabrics, indicating to some that he was a man of means who had simply fallen on hard luck or wandered too far from home. Women of questionable virtue strolled the pier while the waves lapped at the posts and spread the wafting, pungent-smelling mist of low tide through the air. Logan wrinkled his nose in disgust. If it was this foul outside the Painted Lady, he wasn’t enthusiastic to go inside, either.

A woman in a blood-red gown and short black jacket sauntered up to him, brazenly close and reeking of perfume. To his dismay, it smelled worse to him than the tide. “You look like a man with some time to kill, governor.”

“You look like a young lady who knows how to have a good time.”

“And how to give a good time, if you take my meaning. Come along, kind sir. Walk with me a bit.” Logan obliged, letting her thread her hand through the crook of his arm. She squeezed it appreciatively. “You’re a robust one, aren’t you? A real man.”

“Ain’t one for fancy trappings, except when it comes to the ladies,” Patch shrugged.

“I’m as fancy as they come.” Their shoes clop-clopped along the planks.

“Fancy a drink?”

“Are you offering?”

“I know how to treat a lady. Of course I’m offering.”

He figured some ale might loosen her tongue.

She drank like a thirsty sailor, something that appalled and pleased him at the same time. She kept her pretense of being a gentlewoman by daubing her crimson-stained lips daintily with her handkerchief, but her cheeks appeared even rosier beneath her thick layers of rouge, and her eyes grew glassy.

“Where do you conduct your business?”

“Business? I thought we were going to talk about pleasure, governor.”

“And so we shall. You didn’t tell me where you nest, pretty bird.”

“I’m a humble local,” she insisted slyly. 

“Anywhere nearby?” he said helpfully.

“On this very street.”

“For how long?”

“Er…not too long.” Patch guessed her to be in her early thirties, old enough for the blush to have worn off the rose, particularly in the career she chose. But he supposed that if she were desperate enough, she would milk what was left of her appeal. 

“Perhaps you haven’t lived here long enough to remember… I came around these parts a long, long time ago, looking for an acquaintance of mine. A…cousin. Lovely girl.”

“Your cousin?” she replied, nodding with approval. Patch smiled; it was a common, convenient lie, almost a code word. Clearly, he wished for discretion in their transaction.

“I heard she moved away, but that she’d made some agreeable friends in her place of bu-… residence. A boardinghouse, I think.”

“Agreeable, you say.”

“Mmmmm.” Patch fished out a small purse from his pocket. He opened it, and one by one, he began to stack silver coins on the table. Her eyes were greedy.

“Not all of them were as distinguished, gentle and lovely as you, my dear.” Patch reached over and caressed her cheek with his fingertip, tilting her chin up to better stare into her eyes. She shivered.

“Were you… wanting to meet some of your cousin’s friends? To see if they were agreeable, after all?”

“I might like that.” Patch nudged the pile of coins closer to her. “And to see if they remember my cousin, of course. So I could find out her whereabouts, or just to hear how she was faring the last time I spoke to her.” She toyed with her ale tankard, tracing the edge of the rim with her fingertip.

“I think you might find them very agreeable, indeed. And very open-minded.”

“Lead the way?” She nodded and smiled before she swept the coins into her tiny purse. She waited for him to help her from her chair, and they left the tavern arm in arm. Her perfume was killing him, but it almost – not quite – masked the stench of an alley they passed that reeked of emptied chamber pots and garbage. To further his ruse, Patch hummed a bawdy tune that she turned out to be familiar with – no surprise – and she took it for granted that he’d had as much to drink as he had. She was giggling endlessly by the time they reached the bordello.

The building was still in ramshackle shape. It hadn’t changed since the last raid of the premises, but the current occupants didn’t seem to have a problem with conducting business there. “Patch” was glad that the working woman who escorted him inside didn’t seem to remember him when his men emptied the house before.

He saw young faces again, to his dismay, and he sighed to himself at how stubborn some people could be, committing the same sins over and over again and expecting a different result. “This way, governor,” she beckoned. Patch allowed her to show him inside the room, which was warm enough for comfort, thanks to a small coal-burning stove. It was garishly decorated, which didn’t surprise him, and staring too long at the tattered red draperies made his eyes swim.

“I didn’t tell you the whole truth, I’ll admit. I might have left out a few details about my cousin.”

“Such as?” she inquired as she removed her jacket and hung it over the chair.

“She wasn’t my cousin.”

“I’m willing to overlook a little bending of the truth.”

She began to undress, and Logan watched her with a sense of pity and disappointment. She was comely enough, but she was a consenting adult. This was the life she chose. Countless hands had run over her creamy skin and fondled the generous, plump breasts that pushed themselves up from her corset; the pink rims of her aureoles teased him from the top of the bodice. She eyed him lewdly, eyes gleaming with anticipation. 

She moved toward him and ran her fingertips down his arm. Logan shivered, partly in revulsion.

“I’d wager you’ve ‘overlooked’ more than that in your daily exploits, my dear.” His eyes hardened. “She also wasn’t a she. Nor old enough to make a conscious choice to serve any of your clients as attentively as you do.” He removed her hand and gripped her wrist firmly enough to hurt. She gasped and recoiled, but he held her fast and stood to his full height. Even though he had to look up at her, his body was hard with wiry strength, and his expression made her feel strangely undressed – less dressed - and vulnerable. “Tell me about a young boy who was brought here six years ago.”

“Sir, I-“

“No games. You’ve been around the block, and a ‘local girl’ like yourself knows the ins and outs of this shithole and the comings and goings of the rats who pay your keep. You’re no young miss. You’ve been here a long time, and I’ll give you credit for having a long memory.” She met his eyes unflinchingly, more annoyed at his bluntness than intimidated. His hot breath fanned over her lips and his dark eyes were dilated as they bore into hers.

“You might jog it a bit further with more coin, governor.”

Logan smirked briefly, and he stroked her breast through the black satin bodice, plucking at the nipple. He shook his head.

“Be glad I don’t throw you into the same sanitorium where your mistress ended up,” he reminded her politely.” She scowled.

“You’re not who you say you are, either, then.”

“That’s putting it lightly.” Logan jerked open his shirt collar to reveal the royal seal he wore around his neck. She gasped.

“Sire,” she stammered. He released her, and she stepped back and curtsied low.

“Save your pleasantries. What happened to the boy with the red eyes?”

“Red?”

“His irises were red as fire, surrounded by whites that were a smoky black instead.” He described them clearly, since they still haunted him. “Tall. His hair was a deep auburn, rich, long and dark. Pale skin.” She stared at him incredulously.

“The chestnut-haired one. Yes, him I remember. But he wasn’t here long, sire. In fact, he didn’t last a day.”

Logan reeled. He felt as though the floor dropped out from under him. No. No, no, no. Please, don’t let this all have been for naught… She saw him pale and felt concerned; then she realized he jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Forgive me, sire… I’ve given you the wrong impression.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“You aren’t the first to come looking for the lad. Some time ago, another gentleman asked around about him. Didn’t mean much to me, at first; I just tried to convince him that I’d show him a better time, and that the lad was merely fresh meat, not seasoned at all.”

Logan swallowed. “Was he…?” He couldn’t bring himself to say “violated.”

“Nay. Roughed up a bit when they brought him in. You’d have heard him screaming when they broke him in, if any of the gents here had a chance. I’ll never forget that day.” She reached for her handkerchief and patted her neck with it, as she’d begun to sweat. “Brave lad. Refused to let on how scared he was, but the mistress, she gave him a dose to shut him up. Think those eyes of his spooked her.”

“They were beautiful,” Logan muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Go on.” He waved her on impatiently, waiting for more of her recollections.

“This man wasn’t like you. He was rough. Huge. Big, blond man with hair longer than mine, coarse as a horse’s tail. And he was no more subtle than a horse’s…pardon me, sire.” Logan nodded briefly, forgiving her brush with too much familiarity. “He was ragged and looked tired, as though he’d been riding through the snow all night. It was the dead of winter. He was certainly dressed for it. Drab. Didn’t care about style. He looked like someone who spent all his time outdoors. Had big hands.”

“Did he look like someone who hunted?”

“Yes. That’s it. A huntsman, I’m guessing. He had that look, like a creature of prey, sire.”

Victor Creed.

So the huntsman’s tale of how he grew separated from the prince rang false, and his “death” was greatly exaggerated. Logan was frustrated that his quest had taken another odd turn and raised more questions, but he found himself relieved about one thing.

The prince wasn’t dead. He could feel it.

“They took him out of here,” she informed him when he lingered silent for too long.

“They, who?”

“The oddest band of misfits you ever saw. Several of them just as young as the boy, if you can believe it. I certainly didn’t, and I wouldn’t blame you for a moment if you didn’t, sire.”

“Misfits?”

“Likely demons, sire.”

Now Logan sat down. “Demons.” She was surprised that he was taking it so well, and with his nod of permission, she also sat.

“That’s how Mistress described them when they dragged her out of here. Kept screaming it at anyone who would listen. The lad with those devilish eyes you mentioned was rare enough, but two of the young ones who came in here flew, sire. One even had wings. Pure, fluffy white wings, just like an angel. And the other was responsible for the holes in the wall out front. Not quite as much finesse in that one. He made a mess of this place, all right.

Couldn’t tell what was going on, at first. I ran to my room and locked it fast, but I heard the worst clamor on the stairs. More feet than I could count thumping their way up and running down the hall. I heard the blond man shouting and swearing to wake the dead, sire, and I was glad it wasn’t at me. He called for the boy. That’s as much as I can guess.”

“What was his name?”

“Remy, near as I could tell. No. Master Remy. That’s it. That’s what he called him.”

“And you think he took him away.”

“No. Not quite. He came for him. He certainly found him.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“He wasn’t the one who took him away. The young master ended up with the misfits. They carted him off on the back of a horse. Then they flew away.”

Logan was still reeling. He dug into his pockets, fished out some more silver coins, and politely set them on the settee in a neat little stack. “Is there nothing more that I can do for you, sire?” She looked hopeful. Logan watched her with little interest as she undid the bodice and let it fall, revealing creamy, lush breasts in their full glory. 

“No. You’ve done enough.” She made a small sound of disappointment. He nodded to her and took his leave.

He had to find the huntsman. And he needed to find two boys who could fly. 

 

*

“Are you sure you don’t want to come, Ororo?” Rahne patted the space beside her in the wagon hopefully and smiled at her. Ororo shook her head and gestured for her to go on.

“You didn’t ask me if I wanted to go,” Warren teased.

“You never want to go,” Rahne reminded him impatiently. “And it’s too hot for you to wear your coat.” She was right. The weather was warming up as springtime broke through, and Warren would be even more conspicuous among the townsfolk in his concealing overcoat covering the bulk of wings. Warren shrugged.

“Bring back some apples, then.”

“If they fetch a fair price.”

“Make room, Sam,” Dani complained as she climbed up onto the seat beside him. He snorted in disgust but didn’t take umbrage. He didn’t mind her pushiness if he benefited from it. She smelled sweet, like lavender, and her skin was soft when she brushed against him. Sam cleared his throat. “Why are you so squirmy?”

“Ah ain’t squirmin’.”

His cheeks were flushed, and Dani felt a funny little shiver at the look in his eyes as he glanced at her, then looked away quickly, pretending to fiddle with the reins.

“Where’s Remy?” Bobby demanded.

“In the barn,” Henry explained. “I wasn’t sure if he wanted to go or not.”

“He’d better hurry his ass up,” Dani huffed. “We’ll be here all day, waiting on him to make up his mind.”

“Language, Dani,” Rahne tsked.

“What? You understood what I was saying,” Dani sniffed. Sam smothered a laugh and Dani elbowed him. He poked her back, and they engaged in one of their ubiquitous slap-and-tickle fights. Henry cleared his throat loudly when they began to get a bit too familiar, and that left both of them flushed and embarrassed.

It was getting harder and harder to keep their hands off of each other.

“Ask Remy one more time if he wants to go,” Betsy suggested. “And see if our houseguest can trouble himself with getting up and around instead of just wallowing in his room all day.” She made a sour face. Henry sighed.

“Be patient with him.”

“I’d rather be rid of him,” she admitted.

“You, yourself, told me that Victor’s life was in danger, my dear. We can’t just throw him to the wolves.”

What Henry didn’t realize was that Victor had already gotten up and had ambled out to the barn. He followed the sounds of the horses whickering and of a low, melodious voice murmuring to them.

“Let me get this burr out, now,” he chided the mare as she tossed her head. He combed through her mane and fiddled with something small caught in the long fall of hair. He tsked at her when she wouldn’t hold still. “Quit misbehaving,” he nagged. But his voice was gentle and patient, and Victor chuckled. He was as much as a diplomat as his father.

Remy turned at the sound of his laughter and smiled back. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” Victor replied. “Is your pretty lady being coy?”

“Being stubborn,” Remy corrected him. “She won’t let me get rid of this little burr she picked up yesterday. I don’t want it to get any more matted or tangled up in there.”

“Let me help.” Victor came over and began to sweet-talk the mare, blowing in her nostrils and stroking her neck. The mare stopped tossing and leaned into his caresses while Remy fiddled with the burr, gently disentangling it from the coarse locks. In a few minutes, the task was done. Victor patted the mare’s neck fondly.

Remy felt that odd sensation that they had done such tasks together before, or shared an easy companionship in casual surroundings, at any rate. Victor had stopped calling him “lad,” at least, which had disconcerted him. He was starting to be more at ease with him, but it puzzled him that Betsy seemed to detest the giant huntsman.

“You’re good with animals,” Remy commented.

“I have my way,” Victor shrugged. “You’re holding things up outside. Are you going to town?”

“Thought about it,” Remy mused. “Few things I wanted to look at. It’s just nice being here right now, while it’s still relatively quiet. I love being outside, but I hate big crowds. It’s overwhelming. I feel like I’m drowning, sometimes.”

“You don’t like people getting too close?”

“It’s not just that. It’s just… I can feel them. All of them. Their emotions crowd me. It’s like listening to an angry hive of bees and not being able to get away. And sometimes, it’s better not to know what people are feeling. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? There’s just such a thing as knowing too much.”

“Aye, Master Remy. Ignorance can be blissful.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Er…Remy it is, then.” It felt foreign on his tongue. He had no idea of his station or power. Victor once again felt the niggling guilt of what he’d taken away from the young man with his subterfuge and his part in Raven’s plot.

“Did you know me when I was younger?”

“Aye.” Victor wouldn’t lie about that, at any rate.

“How young?”

“I held you as a babe. You got me rather wet, and you didn’t seem at all sorry about it.” Victor smiled grimly at the memory.

“Did you know my mother well?”

“Aye.” Victor almost replied I wasn’t worth the dirt beneath the true queen’s feet, and your stepmother is a hateful bitch. “Lovely woman. Sweet and gentle. Always had a kind word.” He looked thoughtful. “You have her smile, and her coloring.”

“Are her eyes like mine?” He’d always wondered.

“Nay. Those are your own.” Remy stared at him oddly. “You’re unique.”

“I know. And it isn’t helping things any. I’m a freak. I’m not like anyone else.”

“No. You’re better.”

“Not at all.”

“You’re special,” Victor informed him. His voice lowered and grew thoughtful. “You’re not like anyone else, young prince.” Victor’s hand reached for Remy’s tempting hair, and Remy froze as the giant huntsman caressed it, so gently that he shivered. Before he could go on, Bobby ran inside and skidded to a stop before them. Victor’s hand dropped and he jerked away from Remy, cheeks thoroughly flushed.

“C’mon! Move your butt! We’re leaving already!” The young brunet grabbed the brush for the mare’s mane from Remy’s hand and threw it aside. “Did you wash?”

“I did,” Remy argued. “I’m not stinky.”

“Can’t tell in here,” Bobby remarked. He nodded to Victor. “Morning.”

“Right, then. Enjoy your trip, lad.”

“Saddle up. Come with us,” Bobby nagged. “That way, Betsy won’t keep getting her knickers knotted about you being in the house without us he-“ Remy clopped him upside the head and hissed at him to shut up. Victor sighed; of course they would feel that way about him. It was his own fault.

“That sounds like our cue, then,” Remy apologized. Bobby ran out of the barn, turning back to wave them on.

“Hurry up, already.”

“Let me saddle Brutus,” Victor agreed. He wasn’t looking forward to the trip, but he was glad for the opportunity to spend more time with Remy, and in his own mind, to watch over him.

But Remy had other ideas.

“Hey, Bobby?”

“What now? You’re holding up the show!”

“We’ll follow you,” Remy promised. His eyes turned back to Victor, pinning him, taking in the details like his quickened breathing and the hitch in his broad chest, how he swallowed roughly and how his tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

“We don’t have to lag behind,” Victor offered, but he was glad Remy suggested the delay.

Betsy hadn’t left them alone once since her discovery by the well. Victor could still taste Remy on his lips, and his hands itched to touch him again. Remy gave him his wish sooner than he’d hoped. His pulse jumped beneath Remy’s grip as the younger man caught his wrist and dragged him farther inside. He pulled him after him, up the ladder to the hay loft. 

“What’re you up to, lad?”

“Don’t call me that. We can talk up here,” Remy explained. There was something dark and provocative in the way he said “talk” that made Victor tingle. And seeing that supple bottom in front of him climbing up the ladder was doing unspeakable things to his nether regions. They reached the loft, and Remy beckoned to him to sit on the bale beside him.

“What’re you playing at, Remy?”

“I feel what you feel. You want me. But you deny it.”

“It’s not feasible.”

“I hate that word. ‘Not feasible.’” Now Remy knew why Warren was mad at him when he’d told the angelic man the very same after another of their abbreviated trysts. “What would make it feasible?”

“If we were two different people, Master Remy.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“I’m beholden to acknowledge you as that.”

“You won’t tell me why.”

“Because you would hate me.” Victor couldn’t stop those words from coming out of his mouth. Remy was so close, smelled so tantalizingly male and fresh. His red-on-black eyes glowed, and Victor grew lost in their thrall.

“I don’t know why, Victor…but I feel like I could never hate you. It’s…instinct.”

“They might not be the right ones.”

“Let me decide that.” And Victor felt a tug on his emotions, not unlike the hold that Betsy had on him when she read him, but this was a gentle, warm contact, not unlike Victor’s earlier caress.

Remy mimicked it, reaching up to run his hand over Victor’s hair, savoring its texture. Victor leaned into his touch and closed his eyes. “Damn it,” he muttered. He caught Remy’s hand to make him stop, even though he didn’t want him to. “Please don’t do this. It was too hard to stop the last time. And believe me, Remy…we have to stop.”

“I’m a man, fully grown. I can make up my own mind about such things now.” He remembered the night in Henry’s room in painful detail and sighed. “You’re an attractive man, Victor Creed. And you kiss like a man who’s had a lot of practice.”

“You said you wanted to come up here to talk,” Victor stammered. He couldn’t believe his own ears; he sounded like an untried, green boy, and it was growing difficult to fend off the prince’s advances. Remy’s hand slipped from Victor’s grasp and wandered to his long, beefy thigh. His palm burned him through the sturdy fabric, and he gave him a little squeeze.

“We are talking.”

“Remy-“

“Thank you for saying my name.” Remy’s smile was impish, and he was enjoying Victor’s discomfiture and half-hearted attempts at rejection and self-control.

“This isn’t…fitting…” He was stroking Victor again, his hair, his jaw with the backs of those long, slender fingers, savoring the roughness of his golden stubble, those eyes telegraphing how handsome he thought Victor was, and how desirable.

“I think we fit just right,” Remy murmured, breath misting over Victor’s lips – how on earth had the lad eased so close? – before he claimed them, tangling his hand in Victor’s hair to guide him down to him. The kiss was full of yearning and need and it set Victor on fire. He made a small, helpless sound, too close to a mew for his manly sensibilities, and he let Remy take what he wanted from him.

His knees were nudged apart and Remy insinuated himself there, kneeling between them for easier access. It felt good to luxuriate in Victor’s body heat as his arms enveloped him. It was like being cuddled by a lion. Victor was sinewy with muscle, and his skin, when Remy unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers, was hot. “You didn’t really want to go into town,” Remy accused breathlessly, moaning when Victor nipped his lower lip and sucked on it.

“Hell, no.” Hands roamed over long, muscular backs and tugged at clothing, loosening ties and buttons to breeches and trousers, and Victor shuddered at the feel of Remy’s palms skimming over his tanned chest, combing through the crisp layer of hair. He devoured Remy’s lips, hating himself for his lack of restraint, but it felt too good to let him go. Before he could fully form the thought that Jean-Luc would have him beheaded for treating his heir this way, a fingertip teased his nipple, stroking it, before Remy began pulling on it, rolling it and plucking at it. Victor’s cock hardened instantly, craving equal attention and treatment, and Remy was leaning into him, belly pressing into his crotch. “God, Remy…what’re you doing to me?”

“Getting to know you again,” he offered. “A little bit at a time.” He groped Victor, finding his manhood, stiff and needy. Victor’s brain gave up its attempts at control, letting his body take the reins, and it felt sooooo gooooooood to let the prince play with him. Remy reached into his trousers and pulled him free, impressed with his length and smooth, hot thickness. 

“A very attractive man, Victor,” Remy repeated as he kneaded him in an experimental grip. Victor’s arms tightened around Remy as the prince continued his plunder of his mouth.

“You’re killing me,” Victor hissed as Remy began to pump him. He was twitching and jerking in his grip, pushing up into the column of his hand, and he needed to feel him in kind. His hands eased into Remy’s waist band and scraped the pants down, groping that tempting bottom with satisfaction. 

*

“Mirror. I want to see Victor. He’s been gone far too long.”

“That bothers you, Mistress?”

“Yes. It’s unseemly for him to neglect his duties as my husband’s huntsman.”

Or to spend any of his time not pandering to you. Cerebra held her ghostly tongue and watched casually as Raven brushed her hair. “I’m certain no ills have befallen him.”

“They just may,” Raven suggested coolly. Cerebra chafed, but again, she said nothing. Her surface clouded over with greenish mist, and once again various forms emerged, coming into clearer focus. Raven sipped her tea as she watched her favorite addiction unfold before her.

“There, Mistress.” Cerebra drew Raven’s attention to an old, rickety wagon making its way through the glen. Raven heard singing birds and small creatures skittering in the brush; she could almost smell pine sap and wildflowers, the images were so sharp. Cerebra channeled everything that she was experiencing herself as she made astral contact with the occupants of Henry’s cottage.

“Odd band of traveling companions,” Raven remarked. She noticed Dani and Sam again. “The lad looks flustered, poor thing.”

“He’s a bashful young man,” Cerebra agreed easily.

“They could be a charming couple, I think. Her looks are growing on me, I’ll admit, but he could still do better.”

“Perhaps he has a taste for the exotic.”

“Mmmmmmm.” Raven’s sigh was suggestive and full of sensual recollection. Cerebra cleared her throat, or what passed for it. “Nice looking young buck, that one.” Raven kept watching them with avid interest. “Who’s the little one in back?”

“I believe her name is Rahne.”

“Rahne? That’s different. Has a nice ring, don’t you think? She’s a plucky little thing. I like her hair. Reminds me of… never mind. She’s too short,” Raven muttered, searching for the tiny redhead’s flaws. She was more peevish lately from her perceived, encroaching old age, and she’d grown more obsessive with her looks. It was her wont to tear other’s beauty down to make herself shine the brightest. That hadn’t changed since the day she’d put Emma Frost in the ground.

“Who’s the boy?”

“Bobby,” Cerebra said fondly. “Bit of a brat at times, but he’s entertaining. A prankster.”

“Rather plain.” He was actually good-looking in a wholesome way, medium height, slender and fair-complected. He kept his sable brown hair relatively short, and he had a few unruly curls at his nape and falling over his brow. His eyes were walnut brown and his face dimpled when he smiled. He was laughing at Sam’s expense, from the way that the taller boy’s ears were turning beet red. “Scamp,” Raven said approvingly. Cerebra was relieved that Raven seemed satisfied, for the moment, with spying on Victor’s host family and would-be saviors.

She spied the last occupant of the wagon and gasped. “Cerebra…what is that?”

“I think you mean ‘who,’ Mistress. That’s Henry.”

“That thing has a name?”

“Henry McCoy,” Cerebra elaborated. “That’s Shakespeare he’s reading, Mistress.” Raven watched the large, furry blue abomination flip the page of the text with one clawed, thick finger.

“He’s hideous, Mirror. Lord above… miserable wretch. They live with him.”

“Quite happily. He’s a kind man.”

“How is it you’ve even formed an opinion? Why do you defend him to me?”

“I was just-“

“How do you know so much about him, Mirror?”

“I just…find him intriguing.” Raven narrowed her eyes and set down her cup.

“I wonder, then…where do you go, Mirror? When I’m asleep? Or when I leave the palace?”

“Why… Mistress. What an unusual question.”

“Unusual,” Raven muttered. “Hardly.” Florid spots of color rose up into the queen’s cheeks. Raven rose from the vanity and turned away, pacing around her chamber. “I don’t like being taken for a fool. Especially not by someone – something - who’s living in my home at my great hospitality.” Cerebra didn’t remind her that she was given to Raven as a gift, one that she used incessantly.

“I would never try to deceive you, Mistress.”

“Call me ‘Your Majesty.’”

“Forgive me, Majesty.”

“If you want that privilege, I’m going to make you work for it.” Raven sauntered over to the fireplace, and Cerebra thought for a moment that she was going to warm herself, but Raven reached for the iron poker and returned to the vanity. She smiled evilly up at Cerebra, and she was satisfied to see a fearful look cross the features of that molded head atop the frame.

“Your Majesty…that’s a big poker. Are you sure you should be lifting that?”

“It’s rather heavy, too.” Raven brandished it, testing its weight. “I wonder how many pieces you would shatter into if I hit you hard enough with it, Cerebra.”

“Mistress!”

“You’ve been hiding something from me. You know more about Victor’s travels than you’ve let on up til now.” Cerebra recoiled, and she felt her spirit shrivel with fear.

“Queen Raven…please…”

“Tell me why Victor has gone into the woods! What made him join those derelicts? What is he hiding? TELL ME!” Raven screeched. Her voice grew more hysterical, and her glare dispersed the sapphire blue in her eyes, leaving behind blazing, reptilian yellow. Cerebra watched in horror as the queen continued to transform, growing taller, fingernails extending into long, wicked talons. Her golden hair infused its waves with coppery, flaming strands until it was a deep, poisonous red. Her features warped until her nose flattened, resembling a newt’s, and her teeth multiplied, forming ridges of short, sharp little snags. She hefted the poker over her shoulder, preparing to swing it. “I know a few things about tangible vessels that host wayward spirits. I’ve had time to study up on the subject ever since my husband took a turn for the worse these past few years. I know that once I destroy your vessel, your spirit dies. You’ll evaporate into nothing, witch.”

“Please don’t do anything hasty!” But before Cerebra could pacify her, Raven swung with all of her might, aiming for the center of the gleaming glass pane.

The door to the chamber burst open, and Irene barreled inside, hand outstretched. “SISTER! NO!” She ran for her and tackled her around the waist, knocking her off-balance. Raven hissed in anger and surprise, and the poker flew out of her grip. It landed with a clatter, removing Cerebra from immediate danger for the moment. Both women reeled on the floor as they caught their bearings.

“How dare you. How dare you betray me, sister.”

“You gave me no choice. Don’t take your anger out on Cerebra.”

“Are you throwing your lot in with her, now? Is she your flesh and blood?”

“That never mattered before,” Irene reminded her. Hurt flashed in the unseeing gray eyes. Irene righted herself and sat up. She reached for Raven and laid her palm on her cheek, and she wasn’t surprised to find the rough, slick texture of scales. She took Raven’s hand, too, and felt the long talons, drawing Raven’s attention to them. Raven paled and gasped in horror at what she’d let herself become. “None of it every mattered before, to me. You know that, Raven. I love you. You’ve never loved yourself.”

“Damn you! DAMN YOU!” Raven screamed. She launched herself to her feet and ran for the poker. Her chest heaved and her hands trembled, but she gripped it until her knuckles turned white. “I’ll show you!” Raven grated out, glaring at Cerebra. “You won’t betray me! You won’t undermine me!” She directed this threat toward Irene, and she buried whatever compassion she felt for her foster sister under layers of hate and rage.

But Irene struggled back up to her feet. “You accuse her of lying, but you refuse to see the truth! You’re blind to everything but your own twisted desires, Raven! You think everyone has wronged you, and you’ve embraced power, and beauty, at the expense of your soul! You’ll lose your soul! This is madness!” She rushed to Raven’s side and fought with her over the poker. Both women were the same age, something Raven would never admit, when her sister’s flesh was riddled with wrinkles and brown age spots, and her hair was brittle and gray. But there was spirit in her eyes, and determination in her fragile, slight body.

It didn’t matter. Raven was stronger. She shoved Irene back savagely, and she tripped back over a small ottoman. She fell back and heard a dull thud as her head connected with the floor, and everything in her mind went unnervingly silent and black.

Cerebra emitted a psychic scream as Raven raised the poker and struck her helpless sister a final, cruel blow. Every inkling of humanity inside her vanished in that moment, and Raven destroyed her only remaining anchor to her sanity. Her spectral form leapt from the vessel in a rush of light and energy, rooting Raven to the spot, and she staggered back in awe of her ethereal beauty and power. Cerebra’s features were stained with anguish and rage.

“How could you! She loved you so much! She tried so hard to save you from yourself!”

“I don’t need saving!” Raven railed back. She tried to master herself, but it was nearly impossible as Cerebra drove her back, hands flying out with emphasis as she read her a litany of her ills.

“Yes, you do! You’ll destroy yourself, just like my last mistress did! She went mad. Magic isn’t for everyone! And vanity is poison for the soul, Majesty. It despises grace and compassion and drives them out. Look what you’ve done! And look what you almost did to the prince!” Then Cerebra stilled, clapping her hands over her mouth. 

Raven dropped the poker from nerveless fingers. “What. Did. You. Say.”

“Oh, no.” Cerebra backed away, turning from her. Her visage crumbled, and her form slumped. “Oh, no. Victor, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You. You sent him away.” It hit Raven like a lightning bolt. She spared Irene’s body a brief glance, unaffected by the blood running from her hairline that stained her white locks crimson and ruined the small Persian carpet beneath her. “Both of you. You conspired against me.”

“You plotted against an innocent boy who never did you any harm. One who deserved a mother’s love, just like you never had.” Raven jerked back as if she’d been slapped.

“What do you know of love? You’re…a thing,” Raven spat. “You’re cursed.” And she retrieved the poker, not caring that it was stained with blood. “You’re my servant. And you will obey me. Get back inside your vessel. Now.” Cerebra sobbed and obeyed, leaping back into the glass. Her spirit illuminated her visage on the frame, and the molded features glared down upon Raven indignantly.

“You’re on the road to ruin, Majesty.”

“Your honesty is refreshing, Mirror, but your words are misguided. Show me Victor. And don’t leave anything out.”

Cerebra restrained the urge to scream. The glass misted over again, and Raven sat at her vanity, slowly allowing her features and countenance to warp and shift back to normal as she calmed. This time, the cottage came into view, and Raven found herself immersed in the visions from a first-person perspective. 

Through Cerebra, Raven walked through the cottage and saw only Betsy and Ororo. She almost ignored them, but Betsy looked up and swung her eyes Raven’s way. Raven held her breath, but the lavender-haired telepath went back to her chore. Relieved, Raven forced Cerebra to take her outside.

“He’d better be nearby,” Raven muttered for Cerebra’s benefit.

“He is, Mistress.” The vessel’s voice was hard and cold.

She guided Raven out into the warm sunshine and into the barn. Raven made a sound of disgust at the sight of the horses, both for the mounds of manure-littered hay and for the undesirable memories of her trysts with Victor in the palace stables. Her breath caught as she spied Brutus contentedly munching on a bag of oats in his stall. There was a second mare, sleek and well-groomed, flicking her tail back and forth and whickering in response to the odd sounds drifting down from the loft. Resigned, Cerebra said a silent prayer for Victor and took Raven up the ladder. The closer they grew, it occurred to Raven that their were two people engaged in something else than a trip to the market. Both voices were male, and she flushed at the sounds of desperate moans and deep grunts, peppered with low curses and pleas not to stop.

“Betrayed,” Raven whispered. “Victor, you’ve betrayed me.” Cerebra said nothing. She squelched the satisfaction she felt at the horror in Raven’s eyes, now blue again and pricking with fresh, stinging tears.

Remy, taller than his father and glowing with virile, good health, lay beneath Victor and was stunningly, shamelessly naked. His chestnut hair was tousled and pulled halfway undone from its previously neat plait; and his skin was ruddy from his earlier labors, but it was still that unique, pale cream, flawless and smooth except for a layer of dark stubble over his jaw. Those crimson eyes that she despised – and envied – glowed with luminous fire, emphasized by his passion, and they drifted shut as Victor bit his pulse. What she saw of them were liquid, beautiful and captivating. His peasant’s clothing, a rough homespun shirt and brown leather breeches with well-worn boots, were scattered across the loft and made a makeshift bed between both men and the coarse, prickly hay. They weren’t rutting, but they were close, and Raven felt a mixture of revulsion and rage. Victor moved down the lost prince’s body, hungrily lapping and nipping every inch of taut flesh and smooth muscle, and Remy hissed in pleasure as his mouth engulfed the reddened, swollen head of his cock. Remy’s fingers tangled in Victor’s blond mane, holding him close and letting his hips arch up into his lush heat.

They’d resumed their bond. Raven knew how long Victor had kept this secret, obviously, but she wondered how much contact he’d have with him over the years. How deep was his betrayal. How long had he secretly mocked her ignorance, and how satisfied was he to repay her sexual favors and the dark secret she’d held over his head for so long.

“Cuckold,” Raven hissed. “Bastard. Liar.” Her words grew louder. Her eyes flamed yellow again, and she rose from the vanity, kicking over her chair. She sent the ottoman flying next, and Raven hurled the poker through the window, shattering the glass and not caring if it hit someone standing below.

“Damn you, Irene!” she railed, whirling to confront her dead sister. Irene’s face stared silently up at her, still twisted in surprise at her attack. “Damn you for seeing this and letting it happen! You didn’t love me! YOU DIDN’T LOVE ME!” Raven flew over to the wall and banged her fists against it, again and again, willing the smarting pain to drown out the voices clamoring in her head and the pounding of her black, broken heart.

She relived the memories one by one. The funeral. The black shroud being pulled away from the portrait of Remy, painted for the brat’s thirteenth birthday. Remy riding off, blowing her a kiss with the red wool scarf knotted around his neck, while she wished it were a noose, and while she fantasized about thick, crimson blood spilling from a vicious slit across his pale throat. 

All false. All subterfuge. Victor had made a fool out of her. Six long, blissfully ignorant, self-indulgent years. “You will pay,” she hissed bitterly. “You’ll both pay.”

She realized something else. Prince Remy was still alive, and he was nearly twenty years old.

He would ascend the throne and eventually cast her out. Her life as a queen would be over once Jean-Luc discovered his son was still alive.

Raven couldn’t allow that to happen. She composed herself and returned to the mirror, scraping back her hair that had fallen into her eyes with one throbbing, shaking hand. 

“Magic isn’t for everyone. But a little bit helps.” Cerebra shivered. The visions in her pane blinked out and vanished.

Raven didn’t notice the faint glow that enveloped Irene’s body for a twinkling, or the way her chest rose and fell shallowly before going completely still once more.


	12. Shattered Illusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spells are cast. Raven is on the hunt. Enter the Wicked Witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I’m sorry this has lagged. Life has sucked. Trying to write or draw has sucked. I never have time alone, and when I do, I can’t think or focus. I’m still updating this story, along with a “clean” version on my Yahoo groups, so if you don’t want as much kink, feel free to subscribe to Logan_Remy or Gambit_Wolverine out there for that one. It’s still naughty, but less squickable. This one has more casual kink, pansexuality, furry, and even some threesome activity *SPOILER! **cough** just ignore this!* in it.
> 
> Thanks for the input. I hope to make some progress.

Cerebra wept silent tears within the confines of her vessel as the servants murmured prayers over Irene’s body, closing the sightless yet staring eyes. Her face in death was a rictus of surprise. Clodagh rolled up the ruined carpet and threw it dispassionately into the fireplace. The palace was reduced to strained, hushed exchanges as Irene’s unfortunate end came to life. The kingdom’s undertaker was summoned at once, and word was sent to Jean-Luc of the breach of the castle’s walls, emphasizing the threat to the queen’s safety.

You darling, foolish woman. The seer’s murder replayed itself in her mind, and she longed to banish it. Irene was the final, delicate thread connecting Raven to her sanity. Cerebra felt a cold emptiness as the one person she was intimately acquainted with, who truly understood her, was cruelly ripped away.

Cerebra felt unfettered, futile rage as Raven wandered into her chamber and explained to the royal guard that an interloper attempted to compromise her, but that Irene awoke, startled at the scuffle. She struggled valiantly to protect her mistress, but she was slight and frail.

“He struck her with the poker. She dropped before my eyes.” Her sapphire-blue orbs swam with tears, which she dabbed at with her handkerchief. “I don’t know what I will do without her. She was a brave, gentle soul, and an excellent lady’s maid.”

“We shall find the brigand who did this, Majesty.”

“Hurry. I won’t sleep tonight.”

When Raven’s attendants left her chamber, she locked the dor behind her and approached her armoire, flinging open its heavy doors. She moved purposefully, sorting through her selection of rich gowns.

“Damn you for making me wear black again, Irene.” Raven found the stately, black taffeta gown with its demure high solar and bustled skirt and sighed. As she reached for it, she stroked the lustrous fabric, musing. Refusing to call for her lady’s maid, Raven donned the gown and the dainty black satin slippers, and she sat once more before the mirror. Its surface only revealed her reflection as she brushed her hair.

“Cerebra.” Her voice was stoic and calm. The chamber remained silent, and Raven felt a spark of irritation at being ignored. “My earlier threat still stands, Mirror.” Raven gave the molded head above the ornate frame a menacing smile. “Do we understand each other?”

Cerebra fumed.

“You’d best reply,” a melodious voice informed her from her left. The captive mirror spirit received the shock of her life as she confronted the glowing, lovely vision behind the wicked queen. “Don’t bring down more misfortune upon your head, darling. You’ve suffered death once already, and I, for one, am not fond of it.” The spirit held out her hands and stated at her palms, flexing them. “This is still new to me.”

“It gets old quickly. Trust me,” Cerebra whispered through her psychic link with the seer, which, to her delight, wasn’t severed as a result of her murder.

“I’m relying on your guidance, dear.”

“It’s so strange to hear you telling me that.”

“Answer her,” Irene reminded her grimly.

“She’s a murderer!”

“She’s still your mistress. She’s imbalanced and straining at the seams. The last time she took a life, it changed her. She used to be vulnerable, humane and sweet.”

“The last time?”

“Answer me, Cerebra!” Raven growled. Her cheeks were dangerously florid. Cerebra felt sick. Raven slapped the hairbrush against the vanity, and a haunting yellow patina washed over her irises, invading the less venomous blue. Cerebra was torn between wanting to obey and pressing Irene for more answers.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

“Rubbish. I could never tell, anyway.”

“Mirror.” Raven’s hiss was sibilant, and to both spirits’ horror, they saw it was due to the forked tongue that flicked out from between her teeth. Cerebra shivered as she realized what she had to do.

“Where… would you like me to take you today, Mistress?” Cerebra’s voice didn’t waver, harnessing strength she didn’t have.

“Into the village. We’re going to market. That’s our first trip.”

“This doesn’t bode well, sister.” Irene’s voice was grim as she stared at Raven’s back.

“She doesn’t hear you. She doesn’t believe you.”

“I was talking to you.” Irene’s lambent green eyes pinned her, and Cerebra felt what passed for her heart quicken.

*

Betsy ran into the barn, fuming and cursing, with Henry hot on her heels. He reached for her and jerked her back by the wrist, but she spun on him, making slashing motions across her throat with her finger. His eyes pleaded with her, but her refusal to listen to reason screamed itself into his mind, and he winced painfully.

Let me handle this! I told you we needed to keep an eye on him!

He’s not a child anymore!

He’s failed in his so-called promise to protect Remy and warn him about the danger he’s in!

Remy’s a grown man! He can make his own decisions!

He may have made that lecherous bastard’s mind up for him! Henry looked taken aback. He’s taking advantage of the fact that Remy admires him!

Perhaps Victor isn’t the one taking advantage. You just suggested it yourself. The lad has a strong power of attraction. Betsy scowled at him, catching a flash of memory from Henry of a clandestine night laced with shame and regret. Before she could pry, she heard two sets of low moans and whimpers drifting down to them from the loft.

This won’t do at all, Henry! Henry tried to grab her again, but she evaded his paws and nimbly skirted around him, heading up the ladder.

Victor never saw it coming.

One moment Jean-Luc’s son’s flesh pulsed slick, hot and musky in his mouth; the next, he found himself being squeezed and pried loose like someone tearing a nursing kitten away from its mother. “Blazes!” Victor hissed as his fingers clawed through the discarded clothing and hay, trying to find any purchase from being torn away from Remy. Remy opened passion-bleary eyes and found Victor’s blue ones beseeching him, wide with terror as he skidded backward across the floor of the loft.

He was spun around by an unseen force, regardless of the friction against his bare skin, and he confronted the thunderous face that had begun to haunt his recent nightmares. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Yes. You are.” She reached out and wrapped a hank of his long, blond hair around her hand and yanked it hard enough to make his eyes water. Betsy jerked his face toward hers until he could smell her breath and see her eyes dilate. She was furious. “Get off of him.”

“Ow. Ow. Ow.”

“Betsy, please, unhand him! Victor, put your clothes on! We can talk about this like mature, civilized- His words were cut off as Victor went sailing over Henry’s head where Betsy flung him down to the barn floor. Her eyes glowed, staring out from an iridescent purple, psychic mask that resembled a butterfly’s wings. This telekinetic portion of her powers was awesome and formidable, one she refrained from using very often, but it was the only way she could get her point across now.

“VICTOR! NO!” Remy was up and running toward the ladder, heedless of his nudity. Henry, on the other hand, was flushing furiously and stammering.

“Remy, please get dressed. This is unseemly. We didn’t mean to intrude, honestly…”

“The hell we didn’t,” Betsy snarled. “We came just in time. The nerve of you,” Betsy continued, glaring down over her shoulder at Victor. The huge blond’s erection was flagging but still evident, and he lay on his back looking dazed.

“Ow…”

“Victor – WHOOUUULLPF!” Remy found himself flung backward against the loft wall, inches from the window, and he clung to it, feet dangling from the floor where Betsy had him pinned. To add insult to injury, she flung his pair of breeches at him, where they molded to his crotch.

“That’s better, slightly,” she harrumphed. “Honestly, Remy. What were you thinking?”

“I don’t see why I have to explain myself to you!” he railed indignantly. “You had no right to barge in on us!”

“He’s right,” Victor groaned. Betsy’s face was still venomous. “Please don’t hurt me again…”

“Then shut that gaping yap of yours and stop thinking such foolish things. You’re dealing with a telepath.” Victor looked chastened, as though his thoughts, indeed, were wicked and inappropriate. He grunted and rolled until he was half-sitting up.

“You, I need to speak with right now. And you need to get dressed, get on that horse,” Betsy informed Remy, pointing to the dappled gray munching oats in the stable, “and go to market with the others.”

“Awwwww…”

“Spit-spot.” She wouldn’t be pacified, and the butterfly domino over her face glowed more intensely. Her psychic energy was draining him, giving Remy a headache, and he was uncomfortable trussed up against the unforgiving wall in the altogether. His cock was still partially erect, tenting his breeches. Betsy sighed in disgust. She dropped him to the floor with a thud and climbed back down the ladder, hearing curses in her wake as she headed for the door. “You. Now.” She telekinetically grabbed Victor, jerking him to his feet, and he felt his feet moving of their own accord.

“Victor!” Remy cried. He flung the huntsman’s trousers at him from the loft. Victor looked longingly at him, noting the long sheaves of auburn hair hanging down around his handsome face and the frustration thinning his lips. He looked mussed, flushed, and very desirable, but there was nothing Victor could do, unless he wanted the telepath to turn him inside-out. Victor marched jerkily out of the barn, nude flesh gleaming in the sunlight, and Remy threw up his hands.

*

“I sensed a psychic disturbance a while ago,” Betsy informed Victor gravely over a cup of tea. He grunted dismissively.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I received a flood of images from Cerebra, your helpful spirit who guided you here.” That sobered him, and his hand shook as he drank his cooling cup. “There has been a murder.”

“How do you know this? It could be a trick.”

“No. Thoughts don’t lie, Victor. I had a vision of a woman you may know, named Irene. She was staring up at nothing, lying on the floor. She was bleeding.” Victor cursed.

“The old blind woman. She’s my queen’s lady’s maid and her favorite pair of ears.”

“She was also a seer,” Betsy told him. “This doesn’t bode well.”

“I don’t believe in sooth-saying and fortune telling.”

“But you believe in talking mirrors and floating spirits? Don’t give me that rubbish.” They glared at each other and Victor scratched his coarse blond whiskers in thought. Betsy continued.

“I felt the woman die. It was a troubling, dreadful experience. I felt her fear and despair.” Victor paled. “I felt her heart break.”

“Raven.” His hoarse, gruff voice grated out that hated name, making Henry’s fur bristle. “That murderous bitch.”

“She sent you to do her dirty work.” Henry cleaned his glasses absently.

“But she conceived the plan to draw him away. She chose the method of the boy’s demise and how I would carry it out,” Victor argued. “I would never harm a hair on his head.”

“You altered the path of his life. You stole his identity, after a fashion. Prince Remy died that night. Now there’s only Remy, a humble farm boy living in a house full of misfits. And that farm boy doesn’t know who you are to him. He only sees a man full of tales of his hunting prowess and adventures and bawdy stories who finds him attractive. You’re a large presence in his small world, Victor Creed. I think that thrills you…”

“Shut up.” His face darkened with anger and his hands were clenched, white-knuckling against the table.

“You have some nerve, laying your hands on him. If he’d never lost his memories, and if he’d lived in his proper surroundings and royal station, you’d have been hung for consorting with him like that. How presumptuous of you. Such a loyal huntsman.” Betsy eyed him levelly, smiling with no humor. “What a grand service you do to your king, taking such splendid care of his heir.”

Victor sat, taking her abuse and fuming. His jaw was working and Henry smelled his rage; it was bitter and disturbing, and he almost sympathized with him.

“The young prince… has a strong effect on the senses and wits. He’s a determined young man, Victor. A gentle old soul with the face of an angel. But he acts on impulse. He hasn’t fully grasped the power he holds on human emotions. Remy’s special.”

“I know that.”

“No. Remy’s a projecting empath. I feel he may have bewitched you.” Henry braced himself for an outburst.

He was surprised when one never came his way. “Horse shit. The lad’s done no such thing. He has a place in my heart.”

“You wanted a place in his pants,” Betsy corrected him.

“Bitch,” Victor spat. Henry scowled and cuffed him soundly in the ear.

“That’s enough of that. Betsy, curb your tongue.” Henry sighed. “You might feel you love him, but he has a way of influencing a person. Call it charm, if you like.”

“I’d know if I was being bewitched,” Victor scoffed. “And you’ve seen him.” His voice was full of lascivious suggestion.

“Too much of him for my liking,” Betsy grumbled. “And too much of you, certainly.”

“You can’t let yourself be distracted by this attraction to him, Victor. And let me suggest it to you that you can’t take advantage of Remy’s feelings for you. He admires you. I feel he might be drawn to you as a result of your previous bond. He might be interpreting the friendship you shared as something else. On some level, he remembers you fondly.”

“So he couldn’t find me appealing in any other light, is that it?” Victor was more annoyed than wounded. “You’re both full of shit.”

“I won’t turn your brain into a pile of mashed turnips if you behave. You’re going into town, into the marketplace. You’re going to watch Remy. If there’s one thing that we know, now, it’s that Raven was responsible for Irene’s death. I know now that it isn’t the first time she’s taken a life. But this is different. We have new reason to be cautious.”

“What are you going on about?”

“Irene was her sister. We know, now, that she will kill without compunction if she feels she has been betrayed.”

*

Remy sat astride the mare proudly, taller than his father and glowing with virile, good health. His chestnut hair hung down his back in a neat plait, and his skin was ruddy from his earlier labors – and dalliance - but it was still that unique, pale cream, flawless and smooth except for a layer of dark stubble over his jaw. Those crimson eyes glowed with luminous fire, emphasized by his amusement. They were liquid, beautiful and captivating. He wore peasant’s clothing, a rough homespun shirt and brown leather breeches with well-worn boots, and he guided the horse’s reins easily, just as Victor had shown him as a child.

He brought up the rear of their traveling party once he caught up to the wagon, an easy feat as he raced with Victor and Brutus. Remy was enjoying the fresh air and the breeze whipping his clothing. Victor was resigned, chastened by Betsy’s stinging lecture, but he was still enjoying the prince’s company. He was humbled by her accusation that Remy couldn’t be interested in him beyond his buried memories, that he only saw him as a friendly figure from his past. He felt conflicted; it would almost be better in the long run if her words were true. Victor had no clue how to handle this new quandary and his attraction to the prince. He was far above Victor’s station.

Jean-Luc would have his hide if he knew.

They rode along smugly, sharing a delicious secret between them that none of the others noticed.

“Took you long enough to get here,” Dani called out to them, craning her neck around from the wagon.

“Wasn’t hard to catch up to you slowpokes,” Remy fired back. She stuck out her tongue at him and Rahne giggled.

“Yuir belt is missing,” Rahne pointed out to Remy. “Your pants look like they want to fall down around yuir ankles.” Victor coughed and flushed. Remy grinned guiltily.

“Then I’ll have to get a new belt,” he shrugged. “We’ll visit the leather worker’s stall when we get there.”

“Any excuse to buy something for himself,” Bobby muttered. Remy wasn’t a spendthrift, but he appreciated fine clothes. Once in a while, he’d indulge himself in a brightly embroidered tunic for a change, or an exquisitely carved leather belt. That was on his list for this trip, he decided.

“Don’t forget apples,” Dani reminded them. “Betsy wants to make turnovers tonight.”

“Bet they end up hard as rocks,” Bobby joked. Sam chuckled and nodded.

“Practically broke a tooth on that last batch of biscuits.”

“Maybe Ororo will cook tonight,” Rahne said hopefully.

“And why won’t you cook?” Victor inquired. He cocked a blond brow at the tiny redhead, finding an opportunity to tease her. “It’s a necessary skill for a young miss like you. If you want to find a good husband, you should be cooking supper every night.”

“And who says I want to find a husband?” she sniffed.

“Rahney, hush!” Dani hissed, elbowing her.

“What if I refuse to be a wife to some big, smelly, loud man who puts his boots up on my table and bosses me around?” Rahne added indignantly, wrinkling her pert nose. She eyed Victor squarely when she said this, and the huntsman threw back his head and roared with laughter. Remy and Sam snickered.

“She has you pegged,” Bobby told him slyly. He toyed with a small pile of snow he’d generated in the bed of the wagon, making a tiny snow elf.

“Aye, I have no doubt some foolish man would try to boss you around, sprite. You’re full of fire, something a man can tell by looking at that wicked red hair of yours.”

“I’m not wicked,” Rahne argued, pouting.

“Ya are full of trouble, though,” Sam said thoughtfully. She glared at him. He smirked back.

He didn’t notice Rahne’s hand creeping into Dani’s, squeezing it in silent accord. Gradually, she shifted to her half-wolf form once Victor began to pay attention to something Remy said.

I never want a husband, Dani.

No one says you have to, sweetheart.

They communed quietly through their psychic, emotional bond. That much never changed. The definition of their bond, however, had matured over the years to mean so much more.

They didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary about their relationship, stronger than sisterhood and more intimate than friendship, two wicks sharing a flame. Years of sharing a common living space had little to do with it; from the moment they met as girls, they felt a kinship with each other. If they hadn’t met until they were grown, and if their eyes had found each other from across the room, the attraction still would have been instant, compelling, and would have completely shut out everything else around it, every sound, every sensation, every thought.

The first time Rahne felt the urge to kiss out of desire rather than simple greeting or affection, Dani inspired it. The need was so strong, and the curious, initially disbelieving look in Dani’s eyes told her that she wasn’t wrong for feeling that way, that yes, it was meant to happen, that her emotions were true and, more importantly, shared.

Time had frozen for several tense, breathless seconds. Rahne’s heart had pounded in her ears as Dani awkwardly, tentatively inclined her face, breath warm and sweet as it misted over Rahne’s lips. One hesitant whisper of her name, “Rahne,” nearly undid her, supplicating, pleading for permission, and her world split apart as she tasted her. Everything fell into place, every emotion, every frisson of curiosity, giving way to fulfillment; when Rahne opened her eyes, Dani’s bore into them, shining with love, and nothing was ever the same.

Dani’s hand felt warm in hers, and she felt her bedmate squeeze it, bringing her from her reverie. I love you.

I love you, too. Rahne shifted back to her human form and released her, going back to her bickering with Sam.

“Maybe we can buy you a real dress,” he mocked. “We won’t find you a man with you dressing like one, Rahney.”

“You won’t find a woman if she hears you snore,” she countered. “You make the blinds rattle with your noise at night.”

“How would you know?”

“I can hear you from the hall.” She flushed furiously. She wouldn’t tell him that she occasionally peeked into his room to watch him sleep. Dani snickered.

“She’s right, Sammy.”

“Butt out, Dani!”

“At least the sounds aren’t coming from his butt,” Bobby pointed out, fanning his nose mockingly.

“Disgusting,” Dani muttered, but she was smirking at Sam, enjoying how red his cheeks grew.

He looked cute when he blushed.

“Maybe we’ll at least find a comb for your hair,” Sam went on.

“Why? I’ve hardly any hair to comb.”

“It’s just a suggestion. Something pretty,” Sam argued.

“You’re the only ones who see me,” Rahne shrugged. Sam sighed and gave up.

The ride continued easily, only slowing when they reached the main road and saw other wagons up ahead. They were leery around outsiders, after living in such isolated conditions for so long, but Rahne was excited to come into town. She looked forward to visiting each vendor’s stall and booth to feel the rich fabrics, taste the pastries, and to barter and bicker for the best price on fruits and other goods. Angel and Ororo typically avoided the market, not enjoying how conspicuous they each were out in the open. Occasionally, Ororo wore her hair tied back in a scarf, but her blue eyes and snowy brows were still prominent, and her lush body was a temptation to all who saw her. She still had the occasional nightmare about Ahmet and his band of thieves, and she knew that safety wasn’t always guaranteed by numbers. Ororo always felt vulnerable. To top it off, crowds made her claustrophobic.

Remy grew eager at the sight of a large caravan of wagons, some featuring large cages. “A circus!” he called out.

“You’ve seen them before?” Victor inquired.

“Once,” Remy replied. “Just a small one.”

“That’s all you’re likely to see out here,” Victor agreed. “Can’t expect ‘em to be that exotic in these parts. Traveling bunch of freaks and crystal ball readers, at best.”

“I don’t see how you’re so high and mighty that you can call anyone a freak,” Dani snapped. His brow rose at her scowl.

“I meant no offense.”

“Then say you’re sorry,” she challenged.

“Easy, lass. Sorry. Really.”

“No one’s a freak here,” she went on. “You’d do well to remember that.”

“It’s okay,” Sam soothed. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. She sighed and squeezed back.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

It was a sore point among all of them to remember the kind of treatment they’d received from outsiders that eventually drove them together. Henry still never went into town, a true shame when there were so many delightful things to purchase, like maps, medical references, novels, spy glasses, and dry red wine. Henry McCoy had the heart and soul of a noble, but the face of a beast. Betsy, like Ororo, didn’t trust crowds, and she frequently had difficulty blocking out the myriad thoughts once she was fully immersed. Victor grunted in annoyance as he guided his horse’s reins, wondering how he found himself in such touchy, sensitive company.

The sounds and smells of the village began to greet them, and Remy rode ahead, spying the leather tooler’s stall. “I’m going to get that belt,” he promised.

“Wait up,” Sam complained.

“Catch up to me,” Remy tossed back arrogantly. “I’ll find what I came for by the time you hitch the wagon.”

“Cocky,” Victor muttered, but he understood the young prince’s exuberance. After so many days of back-breaking work, it was nice to have some free time for a little fun, wasn’t it? He sighed as he watched him ride off, appreciating the sight of him astride, breeches straining around his ass as he cantered down the gravel road. Victor felt himself rising again, but he squelched it, glad that Betsy had stayed home. But he longed for the boy, and for what he knew could never be.

*

Raven rummaged through her box of spices and dried herbs, selecting a small pouch of purplish blue roots. She worked feverishly, murmuring words in a foreign tongue to herself while she lit several candles. Their warm glow illuminated the large black iron kettle that hung suspended over the fire, beginning to bubble and hiss.

She assembled her ingredients, shaking drops of sweet and pungent oils into the pot, and her voice grew louder as she read the incantation. Raven’s eyes glowed golden as she stared into the flames, and her reflection rippled in the surface of the concoction, wavering and twisting.

She finished the incantation with a hoarse shout, and the air around her seemed to crackle with energy, suffusing her. It was always this way when she handled dark magicks, addictive and dangerous this feeling of power that it gave her. She reached for a long, slender silver dagger and dipped it into the liquid, examining the tincture in the candlelight. She turned to a vase of flowers on the edge of the table and plucked a daylily, inhaling its fragrance. She held the dagger over the stamen and allowed two drops of the liquid to seep into the lily. Fascinated, she watched it promptly shrivel up and turned black.

“Promising,” she mused. “Very promising, indeed.

*

 

Raven returned from the small shack behind the stable, carrying a small, covered clay dish full of her concoction. She headed up to her chamber, nodding replies to greetings from her staff, unwilling to waste time on pleasantries.

Once she was locked inside, Raven rummaged through her trunks, a task she would normally delegate to her ladies in waiting, but she needed to perform this chore herself. The trunk was elegantly finished with bright varnish and shining metal clasps and lock, but its contents weren’t the luxurious regalia she dressed herself in every day. Raven shuddered as she lifted out one of her old dresses, a remnant of her girlhood and the ramshackle cottage. The memories came screaming back to her, and she shook herself. She tsked in distaste.

“Miserable, wretched rag,” she said aloud as she shed her gown. Quickly she shrugged herself into the drab olive dress with its hastily sewn hem and stained skirt. She put on riding boots that she’d stolen from Clodagh’s armoire, needing their scuffed appearance, and she completed her attire with a worn out cloak, a gift from her adoptive mother.

Her disguise was nearly complete. Raven sighed as she approached the mirror. She began to change, surprised at how easy it was, and at the liberty she felt at allowing herself to look less than her best for a change. Her features warped, eyes narrowing, nose extending and hooking back at the nostrils. Her delicate, creamy skin creased and billowed, opening up with enlarged pores and pocks. The lovely fall of blonde waves frizzed and darkened, then sprouted with random streaks of gray. Her hands grew gnarled, and her fingernails grew yellow and brittle, those of a harridan who had lived a hard life.

Indeed, the very life that Raven would have led if she hadn’t stolen away another’s.

“Mirror,” she rasped in a crackling voice, “take me to the market.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Show me the prince.”

“He’s at the leather tooler’s,” Cerebra informed her. “There.”

And behold, there he stood, holding his horse’s reins while he dickered over some belts. He laughed at something the stall keeper told him, and Raven was disgusted to note that the silly wench looked smitten with him.

“I’m going to do what you didn’t have the balls to do the first time, Victor,” Raven promised, and she stood back from the vanity, reaching into a pouch that hung from her belt. She selected one of a handful of crystals, and she dashed it to the ground. A puff of mist rose up from it, enveloping her. When it cleared, she vanished.


	13. Tempted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day at the market. A close call.
> 
> Author's Note: Yes, I know... three years now, since I last updated? Oy...
> 
> I know this has been a wonky, discombobulated mess of background pairings and Remy/Vic Remy/Warren up until now, where it's supposed to be a LoMy fic. I will remedy that with this chapter. Logan has had Remy on the brain up 'til now. Sparks will fly.

 

*

Sam hitched the wagon out in front of the apothecary shop, and Remy and Victor followed suit, securing their mounts alongside it and treating them to a long, well-deserved drink at the trough. The marketplace was buzzing with activity and crowded due to the clement weather. Mouthwatering smells from the vendors' stands tempted them as they walked through the streets. Sam, Dani, Rahne and Bobby stopped at the pastry cart to try the fruit-filled sweet buns while Remy made a beeline through the crowd for the leather goods stall, Victor easily falling into step with him.

*

Logan wasn't fond of the marketplace at this time of day, and even with his page and one of his guards accompanying him, they had a hard time cutting through the crowd once the carriage was hitched. The market's shoppers stared after him, noticing the royal insignia on the carriage, from the pendant hanging from his neck and the symbol embroidered in silver thread on his coat. His clothing otherwise wasn't remarkable; he favored durable, dark leathers instead of the damasks and silk that were considered fashionable for the ruling class.

If anyone had told the prince, of sharp mind, unquestionable strength and pragmatism, and middle years when he woke up that morning that he was going to meet his destiny in the eyes of a reckless young country boy, he would have thought them daft. Or drunk.

One doesn't usually stumble upon one's destiny in such... less than ideal surroundings, certainly. Logan had met his late wife at court, and he was immediately smitten; he saw her smile and twinkling dark eyes every time he looked at his daughter. He lost her far, far too soon. Call Logan jaded, then, for not believing in destiny when he no longer had a future with the woman he loved, when the memories plagued him at night and left him cold and hollow.

The food carts didn't appeal to him so soon after a hearty breakfast, so he browsed the stalls for more practical wares of books and weaponry. Logan eyed a large, carefully crafted crossbow. The vendor, slumped in boredom until he walked through his stall's beaded curtain, perked up when he recognized Logan's seal. He bowed eagerly, eyeballs practically resembling gold coins.

"Your Majesty, welcome to my humble stand." Logan nodded, and he straightened up. "Let me know how I may be of service to you, my liege."

"You have a nice selection," Logan told him casually. "Did you craft this?"

"The bow? Why, yes, sire, that is my own work. It shoots nicely, has a nice grip and trigger." He removed it from its hooks and handed it to Logan to examine more closely. Logan made a sound of approval in his throat.

"I'd like to try it out." The vendor had to restrain himself from dancing with excitement; he settled for wringing his hands slightly as he led the way to the back of the stall and parted the second curtain. It opened up to a small clearing, where he had three makeshift wooden targets set up with sloppily painted bullseyes. Logan limited his grin of anticipation to a slight smirk.

"It has a slight kick, your Majesty."

"Then she and I will get along just fine." Logan took an expert stance, lining up his shot, and it was a pleasure to watch someone who knew what he was doing with a weapon. Logan was a skilled hunter who appreciated durable, well-made weapons, weather it be dagger, bow or sword; the knife maker's stall was his next stop.

He cocked the bow, nocked the arrow and took aim. The shaft whistled through the air and hit the center of the bullseye with low "thup!" Logan did grin this time, and the vendor rubbed his hands in anticipation.

"I'll take it."

"Very good, sire."

"Have it delivered by courier to the palace. I'll compensate you for your trouble."

"It's no trouble at all, sire!" The guard came forward and brought a small, velvet sack from his pocket. Logan nodded to him, and he dug into it, counting off the cost of the crossbow and an additional amount that made the vendor's eyes bulge and gleam.

"You won't be disappointed."

"I hope not." Logan's voice and demeanor flattened, and for a moment, the vendor's smile dropped apprehensively, but then Logan chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. "I appreciate your time."

"It's yours, sire, gladly. Enthusiastically. Constantly. FERVENTLY..." Logan held up a quelling hand.

"That'll do."

*

"Do see something you like, dearie?" Remy looked up from the belt he was examining, fingering the finely tooled leather and smiling down at the elderly woman at his elbow. She grinned back at him almost comically, face drawing up in a thousand wrinkles and showing off gappy teeth. She poked him in the side, making him jerk. "That's a nice one, eh, dearie? Suits you, I'd say."

"You don't say," he murmured thoughtfully, giving the leather a tug. There were no cracks or blemishes on it, it was very sound, with an attractive silver buckle.

"I do! Such a pretty, slender little thing you are!" She reached out and patted his cheek. "You'll be the envy of all your friends in that belt, sir."

"My friends aren't the envious type." He didn't add that he only had about nine to his name, all crammed under one tiny roof.

"Ooh," she cried, poking him in the chest for emphasis, "I have just the thing, before you take that belt... provided, of course, that you ARE taking it, love?" She wiggled her shaggy gray eyebrows at him, which competed with the thick, shaggy tendrils of gray bangs that escaped her black kerchief. "You'll be a vision," she promised, "but of course, you already are."

Remy wondered if his charm was leaching from him and affecting the old crone, unused to such profuse flattery from a stranger; then he decided that she was, indeed, trying to make a sale.

"What were you thinking I might need before I buy this... IF I buy this, madame?"

"Oh, I have just the thing!" She snapped her arthritic fingers and hobbled quickly to a small shelf in back, and she held up a tiny vial. "Leather conditioner!" she announced triumphantly. "It will keep it soft and pliable, dearie... just like a good woman, eh?" She winked and elbowed him, and Remy grinned back.

"You'll make this country boy blush."

"Here. Let's have that." SHe beckoned to it, and he handed the belt over. She hummed while she worked the strange-smelling into the leather with a dirty rag. She cackled in satisfaction. "That'll do! Try it on, love. I have to see it on you!"

"See what on you?" Victor rumbled from the entry way. The old woman's smile faltered as she acknowledged the new customer.

"And what might I interest you in today, kind sir?" Rheumy gray eyes bore into Victor's blue, and he recoiled at her homeliness.

"Er... not much... ma'am." He nodded to the belt in her hands. "You buying that, lad?" Remy grinned at the familiarity, shrugging.

"This kind lady's making me an offer that's mighty hard to refuse."

"Hard? You mean impossible, dearie!" she cackled, but less warmly than before. "It'd be a crime for this young one to walk away without this fine belt." She laid it on the table and stepped back. "I'll leave you two to decide." She turned away from them and puttered around the tent, arranging her wares. Victor was grateful that she'd moved away; she smelled like a strange blend of lavender water and rotten cabbage.

"Thinking about treating yourself to it?"

"It's rare that I buy anything for myself. I can spare some coin for this much."

"You won't have to. Let me. It's the least I can do." Guilt formed a hard, hot ball in Victor's chest, thinking back to Betsy's attack on his character; if not for Victor's deception years ago, Remy would no doubt still be a prince, living in luxury and comfort.

"Don't forget to try it on," the old woman crooned. "Satisfaction guaranteed!" She continued to hum to herself, and Victor browsed the stall's other offerings while Remy picked up the belt, fingering the buckle.

"Round up the kids," Remy told Victor, "and I'll get this. We'll meet them back at the wagon."

"And I said I'll pay for it," Victor insisted gruffly. Behind them, the old woman cracked a smile, then continued fiddling with the pile of scarves. Before Remy could reach for his pouch, Victor was already digging into the one hanging from his own belt. "How much?"

"Two," she pronounced eagerly. Victor shrugged, nodded, then dug out two gold coins.

"Bit steep."

"Steep?" she squawked indignantly. "That's quality, sir, and fine quality it is! Quality's never STEEP!" Victor huffed and stepped back as she poked him in the chest, and he shoved the coins at her while Remy smothered a chuckle behind him, red eyes dancing. The woman held up one of the coins to the light and glared at Victor as she bit it. Satisfied that his money was good, she shuffled over to the small money box and dropped the coins inside.

"I think we're done here," Remy decided. He went to the woman and reached for her hand, raising it to his lips. Their caress against the gnarled knuckles was warm and soft. "I thank you for your kind service, madam."

"Oh! Scamp!" She swatted him and tittered.

"Think I'll wear it home," he told Victor as they left the tent. She waited until the curtains' beads were swinging with their departure before her lips moved.

"You won't make it that far, country boy."

*

Remy and Victor met the others at the meat market, where Sam and Bobby were dickering with the butcher over the price of some veal chops. Sam was doing an admirable job of talking him down to stretch their meager coins, and Rahne smiled when Remy approached.

"Och, what a lovely belt, laddie."

"It was overpriced," Victor muttered.

"What was that?" Rahne looked puzzled. Remy gave him a slightly hurt look, since the belt had been a gift.

"Nothing, little girl." Rahne stuck her tongue out at him, and Dani elbowed her to make her stop, murmuring "Be nice."

"It is pretty fancy," Bobby added. Remy was tugging on it, sliding his thumb beneath it. His expression was uncomfortable.

"It feels snug. Didn't when we were in the tent."

"We could take it back and trade it?" Victor suggested, even though he didn't want to deal with that old bat again. Remy shook his head.

"I appreciate it. I want to keep it. Might just need a little stretching."

"Have Hank wear it. That'll stretch it out just fine," Bobby joked. Sam grinned and shook his head. They finished purchasing the meat and went to another grocer's stall for dry goods. Remy winced and kept tugging at the belt.

Victor absently browsed alongside them, lost in thought. He began humming the little tune under his breath that he remembered the old woman serenading them with as she sorted her wares. Remy stared at him, and he shrugged.

"What? It's catchy." And it was familiar, but he couldn't place why.

They continued to shop, and the belt continued to tighten slowly, pinching Remy's waist. He huffed slightly, wondering why breathing felt like more of a struggle.

 

*

Logan was about to head back to his carriage when he sensed something was wrong. He breathed deeply, cataloging the scents around him, and the sounds.

There. Someone's respirations were uneven and ragged, and he smelled increased sweat, sensed building panic. His dark eyes flitted around the marketplace. He drew his page and guard to a stop.

"Hold it."

"Sire?"

"Something's not right. Someone needs help." A nagging feeling made him veer off his original path back to his carriage and toward the food stalls. He knew he was getting closer...he suddenly _feltpanic, mingled with a sense of confusion and helplessness. "I'm coming," he said aloud, to the confusion of his page and guard as they strode after him._

He found the dry goods stall and saw a cluster of younger customers, two boys not quite old enough to grow a full beard, a red-haired maiden and her taller, dark-skinned friend, and a young man who appeared to be staggering and losing his balance, grasping his throat. 

"You!" Logan called out to him. "With the long hair! What's the matter, man?" Dani and Victor both ceased what they were doing and replied.

"Who?" Dani asked.

"Me?" Victor demanded. "What do you want with me?"

"Not you," Logan growled, stabbing his finger on Remy's direction. "Him!" Rahne followed his direction with wide green eyes and let out a shrill scream. Remy staggered against a table of various bins of dried beans and vegetables and collapsed. Logan was at his side in an instant.

Remy's eyes... Red-on-black, and rolling up in his head as he fought to breathe Logan knelt and scooped him up, against his body, not liking his gray pallor and waxy skin. Yes, this was the one he sensed was in trouble. "You can't breathe," Logan barked. Remy nodded, gesturing to his chest, slapping it. His breaths were croaky and strained, with too much time in between. To Logan's horror, he lost consciousness, arms flopping to the ground.

"Something's cutting off his air," Logan informed them, and he shoved everyone back who tried to approach or reach for him. "Back off!" Logan reluctantly laid him down on the groundand examined him, and he spied the belt. It was cinched impossibly tight around his waist, and he could see the prominent outline of his ribs under his shirt, stomach nearly concave as though he was being squeezed in two! Logan growled, and he made a fist. Only those standing closest saw the lone bony claw pop from its sheath, and quicker than anyone could blink, he slashed at the offending leather belt, tearing through it like paper.

Remy's housemates were holding back the curious onlookers, effectively blocking their view of the stranger's amazing feat. "What was he doing, wearing that shitty thing? It's like a torture device," he accused.

"I just bought it," Victor told him brusquely. "It fit fine only minutes ago!"

"Some gift," Logan snarled. He stared down at the young man, who he gathered back into his brawny arms. "You. Wake up. Take a breath, man. You've given us enough a scare." He lightly slapped his cheek and rubbed his sternum, coaxing him to respond.

He awoke with a start and a deep, oxygen-starved breath, eyes snapping open. His pallor was still gray, and he was disoriented. He stared at the crowd of people hovering around him, staring down at him with more than a little confusion. "How did I get down here?"

"You fell," Logan told him simply. "You couldn't breathe."

"Are you the reason I can, now?"

"After a fashion. If you like. Can't say much for that belt your friend bought, however, whether it was high fashion or not," he punned. Poorly. But Logan was still shaken by the young man's near miss with Death.

"Funny. You're...funny," Remy rasped, but before his smile could work its way across his face, he had a coughing fit. Logan supported him, propping him up, but Remy felt a wave of dizziness, and he slumped back against his chest.

He was so very, very warm. Remy could feel his heart thudding under his cheek. It soothed him.

Logan felt his charge's panic ebb, replaced by relief. The tall, burly blond who argued with him a moment ago stepped forward and reached for Remy, seeking to take him from the stranger's grip. Logan scowled. 

"Let me have him."

"Why?"

Victor blinked. "What? What do you mean, 'why'?" His nostrils flared, and Logan watched his cheeks flush slightly with irritation.

For some reason, that pleased him.

"He's fine right here."

"He'll be better once we get him back to his house."

"I'll be fit as a fiddle once the world stops spinning. Might not hurt if you quit arguing over me," Remy murmured.

"What's your name, man?"

"Remy."

Logan felt like someone punched him in the gut. His mind reeled with vague memories, images. _A grieving father. Blood. A missing, beloved child. A stunning portrait painted in oils._

_Stunning, red-on-black eyes. Recognition struck him like lightning._

"Remy," Logan whispered. Remy's friends listened to the exchange between them in confusion.

"He acts like he knows him," Dani whispered to Rahne, who nodded.

"Highness," Logan's guard said, suddenly by his elbow and staring down at the man he'd rescued. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes."

"What do you need from us, sire?"

"Nothing." He was spellbound, staring down into that face, and Remy was likewise stricken. Victor's eyebrows shot up.

"Sire?" he demanded. Logan's page, a squirrely blond boy, spoke up impatiently.

"You are addressing His Majesty, the Crown Prince James Logan Howlett, first son of King John the Truthful. You will show the proper respect, sir!"

"So shall you, lad," Logan's guard reminded him sternly, poking him. Logan sighed, and when Remy looked up at him again, he reached for the silver pendant around his neck.

"Probably shoulda mentioned you were royalty," Remy murmured. "I might have bowed instead of falling all over you."

"I'm used to people falling over themselves in front of me, although perhaps not so literally. But you can fall all over me if you'd like." This time, Victor did scowl.

"Your Majesty... erm, Prince John," he told him coldly, and Remy's housemates were scandalized by his lack of ceremony, "we can take it from here. His... foster father," he pronounced - with less than full certainty, because what else could he call Hank? - "will want to examine him. He practices physicking."

"So do my court physicians."

"His foster mother will also be concerned about his condition," Victor added, grasping at straws.

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty," Rahne murmured, raising her hand as though she was in school. Logan nodded to her. "Victor does have a point."

"Victor?" Logan asked.

"Victor Creed."

"Where do you hail from, Victor Creed?" Victor was silent for a beat, and Logan smelled an impending lie, but he kept his expression bland. The man's name made his brain itch, and there was something about him that was eerily familiar. Certainly he would remember someone so large?

"From within the twelve territories." Logan gave him a measuring look. Logan could feel his tension and smell the tang of fear on him.

"It's a shame about his belt," Rahne said pityingly as she bent to scoop it up, but Logan grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

"No! Don't. Leave it there, sweet," he ordered. "Don't touch it. There's something unnatural about it."

"I'm inclined to agree." Remy was loathe to get up. It was so tempting to remain where he was, against the prince's solid bulk, but it was unseemly to linger there now that he knew his position and rank. "I think you can let me up now, Your Majesty." Remy struggled to his feet with Logan's help, and Victor hurried forward to support him, pulling him close to himself instead. Logan looked annoyed as he stood and dusted himself off.

"We'll be off, then. Godspeed, and good health to you, Remy." Remy pulled away from Victor long enough to bow, but his face, those eyes, pleaded with him not to go.

"Godspeed, sire."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Rahne stepped forward and curtsied, then took Logan's hand and kissed it. "Thank you for saving my brother. You're very kind."

"Farewell, sweet girl." Bows from Sam and Bobby followed, and an obliging kiss on the hand from Dani. But he held her back before they all took their leave. Victor was already leading Remy back to his horse.

"Excuse me, dear," he asked her. "What's your name?"

"Dani. Short for Danielle."

"That's lovely. Pretty name for a pretty girl." She ducked her face, but that didn't diminish her smile. "Tell me something. Where did your brother Remy get that belt?"

"From the leather worker's tent. Over there." She pointed to the stall's dingy brown tarp. Logan nodded. He bent back down and picked up the broken belt, fingering the leather. It was expertly made, and it looked longer now that he was holding it, longer than it had when it was cinched up tight around Remy's waist.

"Goodbye," Dani told him before she trotted away to catch up with her family. Logan's guard waited until she was out of earshot to speak.

"What are you planning to do with it, sire?"

"Lady Wanda needs to see this," he muttered. "Ask one of the vendors for a sack to put it in." The page rushed off to do just that. Logan turned to his guard. "Come with me. We should visit the proprietor of that leather stall."

"Certainly, sire." His guard looked grim but resigned. His page took the belt gingerly and put it in the sack once he caught up to them. Logan entered the tent without announcing himself, and it was moot; it appeared to be empty.

"Why am I not surprised?" he sighed, scrubbing his face with his palm. "This wasn't merely a sale. This was an attempted murder."

"Someone has to know the vendor around here. She couldn't have just disappeared."

Yet Raven was gone in a twinkling.


End file.
